


The Risk of Absence

by prettyvk



Series: The James Holmes Chronicles [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Or Is he?, Parentlock, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 112,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It starts with five words.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Ah! My favorite little family!”</i></p><p>  <i>Or maybe, that’s how it ends.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The F word

**Author's Note:**

> From The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry:
> 
> “Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.” 
> 
>  
> 
> And as promised we start a new adventure...  
> No firm update schedule, but if you've followed one of my WIPs before you know i rarely go more than a few days without updating.  
> Feedback is always appreciated, and i hope you'll enjoy <3

It starts with five words.

“Ah! My favorite little family!”

Or maybe, that’s how it ends.

Angelo means well, or at least his big, bright smile claims as much, but somehow his welcome, these five words, seem to vanquish the peace that had settled upon Sherlock, John and James like a light but comfortable blanket.

Sherlock should have known it wouldn’t last. In his experience, things are rarely so easy. Especially with matters of sentiment.

They all left Bart’s in good spirits, despite – or because of – the hard truths they shared there. In the cab that took them home, James showed John the pathology book Molly had given him, and Sherlock watched them, listening absently, wondering how this – they – had become his life. It was more than he’d hoped for when he dreamed of ending his hunt and coming back to London.

It was more complications, more pain, more trauma and bad dreams than he ever imagined. But it was also better than what he imagined.

By the time they got back to Baker Street, it was close to lunch time. Quick negotiations ensued. James ran upstairs to put his book down, and when he returned they walked to Angelo’s. It was a nice autumn day, a nice stroll, and at the restaurant they were seated in their favorite spot by the window. Sherlock was quiet, as were his companions, but it was a gentle silence, peaceful. Comfortable.

In Sherlock’s life, few people have ever been comfortable with his silence. Fewer still have ever liked what he had to say. He never thought he’d find one person who would appreciate both things consistently, unwaveringly; that he found two seems almost incredible.

But then Angelo comes to welcome them, as effusive as ever. And his words detonate like a bomb in the middle of that quiet peace.

There’s no explosion to see, no blood, not even a flinch. But to Sherlock, it’s as obvious as the fact that the man seated two tables over is having multiple concurrent affairs, or that the woman across from him, one of his mistresses, knows it and doesn’t care.

It’s in the way John sits straighter, suddenly. In the light tremor in his left hand before he switches his menu to the right one and slips his left hand under the table. In the tightening at the corners of his eyes.

It’s in the way James goes completely still, as he always does whenever he tries to disappear in plain sight, eyes averted, shoulders rounded, barely even breathing.

All that because of five words.

No, not five. Just one.

Family.

Angelo called them a family.

And while it’s legally true for Sherlock and James, it doesn’t make the word any less problematic, especially after the revelations James just heard about his father. As for John, he made it clear Mary’s shadow still looms over him, and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future even if that future includes Sherlock.

They all might be a family someday, but as Angelo leaves the blast zone and retreats to the kitchen, unaware of the damage he has caused, one thing is clear to Sherlock: they’re not a family yet. If they were, he’d know what to say to bring smiles back to their faces, words to their lips. But he doesn’t know, and his feeble attempts yield absentminded replies at best.

Music, he thinks, a little desperate. When they get home, he’ll play for them. Something soothing, at first. Then something a little brighter, a little more joyful. Something to raise their spirits again.

But his plan goes awry when they return to 221B. They climb the steps together, but break apart as soon as they reach the flat. James goes up to his room without a word; John picks up the suitcases he left in the sitting room earlier, retreats to the bedroom, and closes the door behind him. And Sherlock is left standing alone in the sitting room, wondering if it’s even worth picking up his violin. Wondering what he was supposed to do to stop each of them from stepping away from him. Wondering what to do now – and where to start.

At a loss as to where to go from here, he sets the kettle on. During the time it takes to boil, he tries to decide which of them he ought to talk to first. He still hasn’t figured it out when the decision is made for him and John joins him in the kitchen.

“You’re making tea?” he says with that slight tone of surprise he always adopts whenever Sherlock demonstrates that yes, he is able to boil water. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would huff about it. But these are not normal circumstances.

It’s not every day that someone, let alone someone like John Watson, tells Sherlock he is loved. On the contrary, it’s rather unprecedented, and Sherlock finds himself quite willing to forgive that tone of surprise.

“I am making tea, yes,” he confirms. It’s obvious, but he doesn’t know what else to say other than, “Would you like some?”

He sounds very formal, and he knows why; uncharted territory, he’s not sure how else to act. A relationship is easy to dissect from the outside, but from the inside it looks fairly different.

John does want tea. Rather than going to his armchair, he sits at the kitchen table, watching silently as Sherlock pours into their good china rather than mugs. A plate of biscuits was left on the table while they were gone, but neither of them picks up one of Mrs. Hudson’s offerings. Soon, they’re sitting across from each other, and if Sherlock can’t take his eyes off John, too afraid of missing some clue, John doesn’t look up from his steaming tea.

“He’s been very quiet since the restaurant,” John says, his eyes flicking toward the door and the staircase behind it to indicate he’s talking about James. “Maybe you should talk to him.”

Again, not something Sherlock expected, although in retrospect he should have. John’s nurturing streak is as strong as the difficulties they have, both he and Sherlock, to talk about anything resembling feelings.

“I know,” Sherlock says. “I will. As soon as I figure out how to approach that conversation. If you have suggestions…”

John peeks up, shrugs a bit. “Same as before, really. Be there for him, let him know you’re listening. Whatever you’ve been doing so far seems to be working.”

The praise, if that’s what it is, comes with a faint smile that makes something inside Sherlock’s chest twist and twirl. He’s not sure it’s that easy, not with someone as complex as James is, but it’s still pleasant to hear.

Although Sherlock wonders—

“Do you mean it’s working for James, or for you?”

That came out more bluntly than he meant it. Not that he even meant to say it at all. Today has been a study in saying too much, too fast, with vastly different results. The result, now, is that John observes him for long seconds, his gaze unreadable.

“You’ve been very quiet since the restaurant, too,” Sherlock points out.

“No, I haven’t,” John starts, but interrupts himself. He looks down at what remains of his tea, takes a sip, clears his throat. “All right, maybe I have. It’s just…”

He shrugs rather than continue.

“Angelo called us a family,” Sherlock finishes for him. “He didn’t mean anything by it but it troubled you.”

A thin smile stretches John’s lips. “That transparent?”

Sherlock doesn’t bother answering, and instead offers, “I’m here. I’m listening.”

John’s eyebrows arch and he lets out a chuckle, quickly extinguished.

“Does that line really work for James?”

“His reaction was akin to yours,” Sherlock says dryly. “Although he didn’t actually laugh in my face. Still, however ridiculous it might sound coming from me, I mean it.”

“I don’t doubt that. And I appreciate the offer. But like I told you earlier, some things I just need to work through on my own.”

Sherlock nods. No rush, he said, and he meant it. John is here, now, and that’s already more than Sherlock thought he’d have when he fell asleep last night.

John clears his throat again, and adds, sounding more reticent now, “There is one thing. I hate to ask this from you—”

“Anything.”

“Right. Could we…” His eyes flit around the kitchen as though he’s looking for words.

How strange to hear him hesitate. What could be bothering him so much?

“Anything,” Sherlock says again.

Ever so slowly because he’s not sure he’s allowed, he reaches out across the table, touching John’s right hand with the lightest of fingers. John startles and looks down, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. On his third finger, his wedding ring gleams dully under the kitchen light. He switched it to his right hand when his left one was swollen after he broke his arm and hasn’t returned it to the proper finger yet. Sherlock wonders if he will.

“I’m not sure people would understand,” John starts again. The words come out slowly; they sound like they pain him. “I mean. I got married barely over two months ago. Lost Mary a month ago. If you and I… I don’t want anyone to think this was going on while I was married. I’d never have done that to Mary.” After a beat, he adds, “Or to you for that matter.”

Sherlock draws his hand back and nods, although in truth he’s not sure he understands. Who are these ‘people’ John speaks of, and why does it matter what they think? The people most likely to notice a change if there is one are Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, maybe others at the Yard, possibly Molly. In other words, people who already thought something was going on between them before Sherlock had to go away.

“Our private life is just that,” he says. “Private. No one has to know. I’m sure James will be discreet. And it’s not as though Mycroft has any friends to share the news with.”

John’s head snaps up at that, his eyes widening. “Mycroft? You told him—”

“Of course not.” Sherlock grimaces. The mere thought of discussing his feelings with Mycroft is unpleasant to say the least. “Nor am I going to. But you know his methods. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t have a report on his desk already.”

A peculiar glint takes form in John’s eyes, a mirror of the dangerous smile now drawing his lips tightly together.

“If he brings it up, let me deal with him. I’m just about done with his Big Brother act.”

“As long as I can watch,” Sherlock says, unable to suppress a grin. 

John’s smile softens, the gleaming edge of steel fading away, leaving behind true amusement and warmth. It’s like the sun just burst into the flat. Sherlock basks in that quiet moment, cataloguing every crinkle at the corners of John’s eyes, hoarding it all away for those coming times in front of ‘people’ when it won’t be quite so simple to be together.

The moment ends only too soon.

“I was thinking,” John says, “I’ll sleep on the sofa from—”

“Absolutely not. Don’t even think about it.”

John’s sigh is one of exasperation. “Sherlock, can we discuss this for a second?”

Standing, Sherlock sets his empty cup in the sink. “There is nothing to discuss,” he says on his way to the sitting room.

He shrugs out of his suit jacket and leaves it on his armchair before sitting at the desk. His laptop hasn’t finished booting up yet that John comes to stand by him.

“It’s your flat,” he says. “Your bed. It made sense when I was hurt but I’m fine now.”

“It’s _our_ flat,” Sherlock retorts. “And you sleep more than I do, so it makes sense for the person who uses the bed the most to sleep in it.”

What Sherlock really wants to say is, _it will be our bed eventually, and if you sleep in it, it already is, somehow_. He’s not sure it’s the right time for that however. And it’d feel crass to hint again at sharing a bed, as though he can’t wait for John to be ready. 

“Sherlock…” John’s voice is quieter, all of a sudden, and Sherlock looks up to meet his eyes. “I don’t know how long… I mean, even without the whole widower issue… Are you sure you want to sleep on that sofa for God knows how long?”

“I’ll sleep on it for the rest of my life if I have to.” John’s frown calls for clarification. “I’m more interested in sharing your life than your bed.” An even deeper frown, now. Sherlock is messing things up more and more, isn’t he? “Not that I don’t want to share your bed,” he adds, coming close to tripping over his own words in his haste to get them out. He can’t seem to stop, can’t seem to chase away that frown. “Or that I’m likely to sleep here forever. If nothing else James will move out in a few years and—”

And his inane babbling thankfully comes to an end. Hard to keep talking when John’s lips are pressed against his, chaste, gentle, but unyielding. When they retreat, John’s hand remains at the back of Sherlock’s neck. Every hair at the nape of his neck and on his arms is standing up, though Sherlock himself would be hard pressed to do the same with his knees suddenly feeling like jelly.

“I thought…” He has to lick his lips before he can finish. “I thought we were taking things slow.”

John chuckles quietly. He squeezes Sherlock’s neck once before letting go. “Yeah. We are. But I don’t think you’ll have to wait for James to go to uni or something before you sleep in a proper bed again. Just thought you needed to know that.”

“That’s… good.”

The word, ill-fitting to the extreme, seems to chip away at something, and suddenly they’re both laughing, almost giggling, for no reason at all or maybe because they’ve found each other, the same way they laughed, so long ago, coming home for the first time after chasing a cab through London. Sherlock can’t remember when he last time heard John laugh. He missed it, he now realizes.

When they finally quiet down, they’re back to that peace from before the restaurant; easy companionship. Sherlock missed that, too, for three long years.

“Listen,” John says, “I’m going out for a while. If I’m staying here, I’ve got to get the rest of my clothes. And talk to my landlord, too.”

Sherlock doesn’t like the idea of letting him go alone to the home he shared with Mary and that is filled with memories of her, but John declines his offer to accompany him.

“One of those things I need to do by myself. Besides, you’ve got things to do, too.”

A meaningful look toward the ceiling makes it clear what he’s referring to. Sherlock nods and lets him go. A few minutes pass before he finally goes up to James’ room, and when he does he still has no idea what he’ll say.


	2. Unanswered Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm definitely not promising to update that quickly all the time, but you all seemed so happy to see this fic start, i couldn't resist.

The door is only half closed. Sherlock knocks once before pushing it open. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, James looks up from the book in his lap. Not Molly’s book, but a paperback that has been read often enough that the pages are close to falling off. The Little Prince. The same book in which James once hid a picture of his father. Is the picture still there?

“Can you believe,” James says in a voice devoid of inflections, “that it took me years to understand he commits suicide at the end?”

For a second, Sherlock thinks he means his father, but James lifts the book, indicating it with a tilt of his head before he throws it on the bed.

“Does he?” Sherlock asks, coming into the room and picking up the book. “He befriends a rose and a fox and has conversations with both. He travels between planets. Who’s to say he truly dies?”

He flicks through the pages as he speaks. No photograph in there. He wonders where James hid it – not that Sherlock intends to go looking for it. He stops on the last drawing; two sand dunes and a single star. Absence drawn with just a few lines.

When seconds pass in silence, he looks up to find that James is observing him with a puzzled expression. Its reason soon becomes clear.

“You deleted The Hobbit from your mind palace,” he says, “but you kept The Little Prince? How come?”

Setting the book down at the foot of the bed again, Sherlock shakes his head.

“Your grandmother can forgive many things, but she wouldn’t forgive that.”

James’ reaction to the word ‘grandmother’ is instantaneous, and just about inverse to his reaction when he heard Angelo say ‘family’. His shoulders relax, and his eyes, although still bloodshot, brighten at once.

“Did she read it to you when you were little?”

Did Moriarty read it to James?

“No, she had me read it to her so often that I could recite pretty much the whole of it without looking at the text.”

A corner of James’ mouth curls up. “What was your favorite bit?”

An answer comes to Sherlock’s lips, unbidden. He wants to silence it; James knows too much about him already. But in the end, taming is all about trust.

“Vingt et un,” he says, and the other corner of James’ mouth twitches upward.

“Is John your fox?” James asks with a grin that somehow doesn’t touch his eyes. “Is he tamed now?”

Sherlock scowls at him. “We are not talking about John.”

James’ grin doesn’t abate in the slightest. “You told him, didn’t you?”

“I already told you that’s none of your business. Drop the subject.”

On this particular topic, James appears to have very selective hearing. “But you told him,” he presses on. “And I was right. Wasn’t I?”

Sherlock tries to keep scowling. He really does. But James _was_ right, and John… Well, it’s hard to keep scowling when thinking about John.

“You were right,” he admits, turning away to walk to the window. There isn’t much to see but a bit of roof and a blue-grey sky. “But you already know that. And we’d appreciate it if you kept that knowledge to yourself.”

When James snorts, Sherlock glances back at him.

“I don’t know who you think I’d tell.”

“Whom.”

James sighs, but repeats dutifully. “I don’t know whom you think I’d tell. All my friends live in this flat.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and proves him wrong with one word. “Molly.”

Red creeps up in James’ cheeks. “She likes you a lot,” he blurts out, a clear attempt at diverting the topic. “More than likes you.”

“She has an unfortunate tendency to fall for the wrong people,” Sherlock says, inclining his head once. “But I think she understands I’m not for her. She can be fairly perceptive. After all, she guessed about you.”

 _That_ leaves James open-mouthed and wide-eyed. “She… what?”

“She figured out who you are.”

“She did? How? When?”

“You can ask her how if you want to hear her thought process. And it was weeks ago.”

“ _Weeks_?” James’ voice rises in pitch and he winces before controlling himself. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why are you telling me now?”

“I’m telling you now because it concerns you. I didn’t tell you before to prove a point. Did you notice a change in her behavior recently?”

Frowning, James looks down, clearly thinking, then finally looks back at Sherlock and shakes his head. “Why is she still nice to me?” he asks, whispering.

“Why wouldn’t she be?” Sherlock asks in return.

When James can’t come up with an answer, Sherlock’s chest feels suddenly too tight. Can he really think of no reason why someone would like him? That feels entirely too familiar.

“She doesn’t care whose DNA you share. She cares about who you are.”

James’ expression remains somewhere between frustrated and confused. “And who is that?” he asks, still no louder than a whisper.

An excellent question. Sherlock has been trying to figure out the answer for weeks. All he has so far are clues, pieces of a puzzle whose picture will only appear with time. It’s all right; Sherlock can be patient – sometimes.

“According to your birth certificate,” he says with a slight smile, “James Philip Holmes.”

It turns out to be the wrong thing to say. In retrospect, Sherlock should have realized that. Identity, family… for James even more than for most people, it’s all connected.

“According to my _fake_ birth certificate. Is that what I am? Fake?” His eyes darken as his voice rises. “I wear a fake name, and before that I wore my father’s name. I read that book—” He kicks the paperback and it tumbles to the floor, two pages flying free. “—because he put it in my hands. I play the piano because he taught me. I speak other languages before he said I had to. I wear those stupid ties because… because…”

He drops his gaze to the length of silk in his hands, tugged from his collar and now wrinkled between his tightening fingers.

“You wear ties,” Sherlock says quietly, “because you want to. Not because anyone, dead or alive, is making you. As a matter of fact I remember just how happy you were when you bought those. Or when you started talking to my mother in French. Or when I got you that thing—” He gestures at the keyboard. “—which can only loosely be called a piano.”

A look of outrage crosses James’ face as he glances at the keyboard; Sherlock will take outrage over self-loathing any day.

“As for this,” Sherlock says, picking up the book and its loose pages, “it’s only—”

“No!”

It’s not outrage anymore shining in James’ eyes, but pure horror. He drops the tie and holds out his hands, demanding the return of the book. Sherlock surrenders it and the two pages, forgetting what he meant to say in front of James’ distress.

“No, no, no,” he mutters under his breath, staring at the disaster in his hands. “He’s gonna be so mad, he’s…”

When he falls silent, Sherlock can guess exactly why. ‘He’ isn’t going to be angry because ‘he’ is dead and James knows that, now; knows without the shadow of a doubt that there was no way for Moriarty to fake his death. His eyes, gleaming with tears, say as much before he turns away, his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s hand starts to rise before falling again, now closed into a fist.

“We can fix it,” he says. “I have binding glue somewhere. Come downstairs and we’ll put it back together.”

He leaves the room, giving James some privacy. Five minutes, he thinks as he rifles through his desk. If James doesn’t come down within five minutes, Sherlock will go back upstairs.

He finds the slim tube of glue in two minutes; James comes down two and a half minutes later. His cheeks are dry but his eyes are redder than before. He brings the book to the desk, remaining silent as Sherlock directs him to hold it open on the spot where the pages are missing while he applies the glue. It only takes a moment. The drying will take a bit longer. James’ healing, on the other hand… Who knows how long that will take?

“Did John go out?” James asks, subdued, as he looks around the room.

“He had errands to run. He’ll be back.”

“Can we…” His gaze flits through the room again, running, over the violin cases, the books, the armchair, stopping only when he’s looking at the door and the matching coats hanging beyond.

“Come on,” Sherlock says. “We’re going out.”

They’re already in the street before James asks where they are going. The thing is, Sherlock has no particular place in mind. James just had that expression Sherlock is more used to seeing on John’s features, an expression that usually comes with words like ‘I need some fresh air’. So, fresh air it is. But as for a destination…

The park is dull. They were at Bart’s just this morning. They went to the museum a couple of days ago. Lestrade hasn’t called in five days and Sherlock isn’t quite desperate enough to take on any of the three clients that emailed him in the past few days. A few years ago, a time like this would have found him shooting at walls, but he’s not bored right now. Out of ideas, but definitely not bored. As it turns out, teenage minefields are the very opposite of boring.

James is still waiting for an answer. Sherlock turns the question back to him.

“Any place you’d like to go?”

Which is how they end up in a nearby used books store. Sherlock is not terribly surprised.

“How many...” James starts; the question ends with a beaming smile when Sherlock waves him off. He’s still smiling, close to an hour later, when he carries two heavy bags out of the store, having consented to let Sherlock carry the third. The store owner, a graying man with a bad back – war injury – accompanies them to the door, inviting them to return soon. 

“Do you want me to call the bank again?” James asks, a touch of apology in his voice. “That was more expensive than I expected.”

Before Sherlock can tell him not to worry, a car comes to a stop next to them, the back door opening at once. A quick glance inside confirms the presence of an umbrella and its depressingly predictable owner. Were he alone, Sherlock would ignore his brother; he’s really not in the mood. But James’ bags are heavy; he’s already shifted his hold on them three times. With a sigh, Sherlock capitulates.

“Get in,” he tells James, gesturing at the car. “The sooner we let him annoy us, the sooner it’ll be over.”

“Sherlock. As pleasant as ever,” Mycroft says archly as they settle next to him and the car starts moving. His tone softens somewhat when he adds, “Hello, James.”

“Hello Uncle Mycroft.”

The title always draws a rather strange look to Mycroft’s features, which is probably why James uses it. Sherlock approves. Anything that throws Mycroft off balance, even for a second, is worth the effort.

“How did you know where we were?” James continues.

“He knew because there are five CCTV cameras in this street alone,” Sherlock says. “Did I never tell you about he fancies himself a spy? Too bad he can’t do legwork.”

“I can do legwork,” Mycroft retorts with a fake smile. “I just don’t see the point of it. And I am no… _spy_.”

He says it like it’s a curse word. Sherlock snorts. James presses his lips together in a transparent effort not to grin.

Thankfully enough, the ride back to Baker Street only takes moments, occupied by Mycroft showing an interest in James’ book selection. Overall, he seems impressed, though he doesn’t actually say so and Sherlock doubts James can read him well enough to notice. More unfortunate is the fact that, once they get out of the car, Mycroft follows. Sherlock has a small idea what brought him here today; after all, Sherlock warned John this was likely. Still, he didn’t lose time. He even brought a folder, though God knows what’s in it. Information about John he kept to himself for such a time, maybe.

As James takes all three bags up to his room, Mycroft makes himself at home in John’s armchair and Sherlock, sitting across from him, attacks first.

“Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it. It’s none of your business.”

“What is it exactly that is none of my business?” Mycroft inquires with a maddening smile. “Did something happen?”

Drumming his fingers on the armrest, Sherlock refuses to reply and merely stares at him. If Mycroft wants to play games, he’s simply not going to engage. Mycroft will go away, eventually; the country isn’t going to run itself.

“Right,” Mycroft says. “I doubt you care for my congratulations, so let’s move on. I mentioned the issue before and I thought now would be a good time to revisit it.”

With that, he holds the folder out to Sherlock, though Sherlock doesn’t take it.

“And you might as well come in here, James,” he adds without raising his voice or glancing back. “It concerns you.”

Right on cue, James comes in, looking a little annoyed.

“Did I make—”

“Noise?” Mycroft finishes for him. “No, not this time. I just assumed you’d be listening in as usual.”

When Sherlock still refuses to take the folder, Mycroft hands it to James, who takes it with a startled look. He glances at Sherlock before opening it, as though to check he may. Sherlock nods once, curious despite himself. 

“They’re… schools,” he says, frowning as he flips through sheets of paper.

“Indeed,” Mycroft says. “I have taken the liberty of narrowing down the choices. Any of these would give you an excellent education. You can look through them and—”

“He doesn’t need to go to school,” Sherlock cuts in, rolling his eyes. “I’m teaching him what he needs to know.”

Mycroft lets out a huff. “You’re teaching him to be a consulting detective. Lovely career path. But what if he doesn’t _want_ to be a detective?”

“And I assume _you_ know what he wants.”

“What I know is that his Swiss bank account, as well-funded as it may be, won’t last him a lifetime. Mummy is having me set up a trust fund but some people have been known to burn through those rather quickly. So sooner or later he’ll need to find gainful employment. And that is usually easier to find with a degree of some sort. Especially in the medical field.”

If Sherlock keeps rolling his eyes like this, he’s bound to hurt himself. Could Mycroft be showing off any more than he already is? The result, of course, is that James is staring at him, eyes wide and mouth slack.

“How do you know?” he says in that almost-awed voice he usually reserves for Sherlock.

Snorting, Sherlock gets to his feet and goes around James, peeking over his shoulder at the reports Mycroft gathered. 

“He knows because he likes to poke his nose in other people’s business. He must have traced back the money you transferred to my account, which is how he knows about that. And his cameras must have picked up the book Molly gave you.”

Mycroft’s self-satisfied look is entirely insufferable when he stands and smoothes a crease off his trousers. “Well, you two can think about it. Don’t take too long, though. Mummy keeps asking and I can only divert her attention for so long before she takes matters into her own hands.”

“She asks about me?” James blurts out as Mycroft starts toward the door.

Mycroft pauses and looks back, one eyebrow arched. “Did you doubt it?” he asks with a slight smile before saying his goodbyes. The answer seems to please James immensely.

“Will she be upset if I don’t go to school?” he asks Sherlock once Mycroft has disappeared, setting the folder on the coffee table and kneeling down in front of it.

“She’ll be upset if you go and it’s not her top pick,” Sherlock says, moving to the window to watch Mycroft climb into his car. “Which doesn’t mean you should go just to please her. You don’t have to go.”

For a long moment, James is silent behind him, until Sherlock has to look back to try to figure out what goes on in his mind. He’s still detailing those reports. Is he really that interested?

“Some of them are boarding schools,” he says without looking up.

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to reply. Of course there are boarding schools in the lot. Most of the schools Mycroft deems adequate probably are. And the one he and Sherlock attended is probably at the top of the list. Sherlock is taken by the sudden urge to light a fire with all that careful research.

“If I went to boarding school,” James continues, more quietly, now, “you could be alone with John. You don’t need me as a friend now that you’ve got him back.”

It’s been a while since Sherlock was punched so hard that all the air left his lungs, but he remembers it feeling a bit like this.

“Like I told Mycroft,” he says, proud of himself when his voice remains steady, “I’m teaching you and you don’t have to attend school. If you want to go, you can choose whatever school you like best in there. You can go to a boarding school if you really want to. But don’t do it thinking it’s what I want. Because it’s not.”

James has rarely looked so pleased. Sherlock himself would be happier if James wasn’t still studying those sheets as though he’s actually considering choosing one. He’s not sure when it happened, but he’s grown used to – and fond of – having James around, to the point that he can barely imagine not having him there anymore. The feeling is disturbingly unsettling. Still, he can’t forbid James to go to school if that’s what he wants.

If nothing else, it’s past time someone actually asked what James wants. Pity Mycroft asked before Sherlock even thought of it. He’s going to have to do better than that.


	3. Another Quiet Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to say about the previous chapter - when Sherlock is asked about his favorite part of The Little Prince, he says it's part 21 which is when the Little Prince meets a fox who teaches him what friendship is, hence why James teases him about John being his fox.

“Is this a no-talking time?”

The question, barely a whisper, comes after Sherlock has been lying down on the sofa for close to an hour. He can see why James would feel like he needs to ask. In truth, Sherlock has been doing some thinking. Things have changed, or at least started to change, and more things will probably change soon; if he tries to anticipate every possible development, maybe he won’t be caught by surprise like he was too many times today. He still has a lot to figure out, but now seems like an inconvenient time to risk upsetting James again. Twice in one day seems quite enough.

“Not particularly,” he says, sitting up. “What is it?”

James is sitting cross-legged on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, those school reports spread out in front of him. A full hour studying them… Sherlock doesn’t have to ask if he wants to go to school or not, the answer seems pretty obvious. _Why_ he would want to go, however, is rather mystifying.

“Don’t you want to have a look?” he asks, turning the sheets so they face Sherlock.

Sherlock does have a look – just a glance at the closest report, nothing more, and it’s all he can do not to scowl when he sees the picture in the corner. The austere façade is that of the boarding school he attended until being expelled at sixteen after running away one time too many. Like he thought, Mycroft slipped it in the lot. He can’t honestly believe Sherlock would want James to go there. The school he attended after that doesn’t seem to be on the table; Mummy always thought it was second-class.

“I told you, it’s up to you.”

Unless he chooses Sherlock’s old school, in which case they’ll need to have an extended discussion about what it’s like, regardless of what the report says.

“But I’d like to know what you think,” James presses on. “You know about schools, don’t you? But me, I’ve never been to one. Father said—”

He stops abruptly, looking down at the papers on the table and picking one up to read. He’s not exactly hiding behind it, but it’s a near thing.

“This one’s just for boys,” he says, his voice a little higher suddenly. “Did you go to a boys school or were there girls, too?”

“All boys.” With a finger, Sherlock pushes the sheet of the school in question toward James. “This one. I don’t recommend it.”

James sets down what he was reading and picks this one up. “Why didn’t you like it?” he asks, giving it just a glance before folding it in two and slipping it back into the empty folder.

Snorting, Sherlock leans closer to the coffee table so he can read more easily. 

“Too many reasons to list them all, but mostly I didn’t like that I wasn’t allowed to conduct science experiments. The so-called science teacher had a very firm hands-off policy.”

A policy that did not extend to underage girls from a nearby girls-only school, but no one believed Sherlock and he’s certainly not going to touch that topic now, not in present company.

“Did Mycroft go to the same school, too?”

“He did, but we weren’t there at the same time.”

Would it have helped if he’d been there? At that time, or at least early on, Sherlock still idolized him, and Mycroft might have found a way to help. Or he might have talked to their parents. Things might have been different. Something else Sherlock doesn’t feel like exploring right now.

“Why do you want to go?” he asks, trying to keep his tone neutral. He told James it’s up to him, so it’d be hypocritical to hint he doesn’t approve. “If it’s about going toward a medical career like Mycroft said, you have time before—”

Sherlock loses track of what he was saying when familiar steps echo in the staircase, and both he and James look at the door to watch John walk in. A duffelbag hangs from his shoulder, and he has a takeaway bag in his hands. He looks tired, the circles around his eyes like bruises.

“Anyone up for Thai?” he asks, and while his tone is jovial enough, it sounds a little forced, as though he’s trying to prove going back to the home he shared with Mary did not affect him, when it obviously did.

“Is it tea time already?” James says, standing up to join him in the kitchen. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

They chat about what dishes John bought and the respective merits of Thai versus Indian food. James points out that real Thai food – which he had in Thailand – tastes nothing like London’s version, and is according to him far superior. John has the briefest of hesitations; like Sherlock, he can probably sense the shadow of Moran drifting over that trip James is alluding to. He quickly finds an innocuous reply and moves on, but Sherlock’s mind is still stuck in Thailand. He did not have a particularly nice time there while tracking Moran. Without thinking, he touches that spot, high on his ribs, where a thin, long scar remains. 

Trying to distract himself, he focuses more closely on what he’s reading and starts to gather the reports, ordering them into a neat pile with the least unsatisfactory establishment on top. He hears, vaguely, that John and James are still talking, but he doesn’t pay much attention until John holds out a plate of food under his nose.

“Remember how we talked about setting a good example?” John asks, his eyebrows raised and his lips quirking in an odd smile.

Sherlock is not hungry, but as John settles in his armchair and James on the floor by the coffee table, each with a plate, he forces a few bites down.

“Did you order them?” James asks, noticing the pile of reports. At Sherlock’s nod, he taps the first one. “Is that the one you think I should go to?”

“Go where?” John asks, leaning forward in his chair.

“School,” Sherlock says, setting his plate down. “And if you must go anywhere, then yes, I think that one might not be too awful.”

He lies down again, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes drifting shut. He’d give a lot right now for a cigarette. Even a nicotine patch would be nice if he wasn’t out of them. He has a lot to think about.

It might be altogether better if he deleted Thailand from his memories. Nothing happened there that he actually needs to remember, unlike other parts of his chase. He’s kept all of it so far because it was still too fresh for him to have the distance necessary to decide what was needed and what wasn’t, but enough time has passed. More than enough. Now that he’s settled back into a routine, memories seem to rise more often, especially at night. It’s time to start cleaning up.

Before he can begin to focus, however, John and James draw him back out of his thoughts.

“Oh. Will you be going to school, then?”

“Sherlock’s mother and Mycroft think I should but Sherlock says it’s up to me.”

“Of course he does.”

Sherlock can’t help but frown at the thread of amusement in John’s voice. Why is he amused? What joke is Sherlock missing here?

“So, do you want to go, then?”

A few seconds pass before James answer. “I think I’d like to, yes. I’ve never been to school but I think it could be nice. Maybe I’d even have friends.”

His voice has grown more and more quiet with each word, all the way down to a whisper. Sherlock’s first instinct is to disabuse him of that notion. In Sherlock’s experience, it’s more likely he’d find cruel words than friendship. Being smarter than the students _and_ teachers is bad enough; add in James’ past and the too-many ways he might be unintentionally reminded of it and shut down… This is _not_ a good idea.

He doesn’t get to voice his warning. How could he when John is answering, “Of course you’ll have friends. Lots of them.”

Why lots of them, Sherlock wants to ask as he turns his head to meet John’s eyes. Just one is enough, as long as it’s the right one. John smiles like he knows exactly what Sherlock meant to say, so why say it? And why think of Thailand when a gentle warmth is spreading through him, soothing his mind from the inside out?

Soon after dinner is over and the leftovers put away, James declines John’s offer to watch telly and decides he’s going up to his room. He starts to leave but quickly comes back to the desk. Without a word, he takes the book they left there earlier; the glue must be dry by now. He holds it to his chest as he hurries out.

“A bit early for him to turn in, isn’t it?” John asks, swiping the pile of reports off the table before he sits in his armchair.

It is, but Sherlock doubts James is going to sleep anytime soon. Not when he has seventeen new books to read. That, and he left the room to give Sherlock and John some space, Sherlock would bet his violin on it. 

“He’s had a long day,” Sherlock says, but John doesn’t look like he’s listening. He’s flicking through the school reports and his eyebrows are climbing higher and higher with each new page.

“Christ,” he breathes when he looks at Sherlock, his eyes wide. “Are those the tuition prices for one year? We’re going to need to take a lot more cases.”

That ‘we’ is really nice, rolling off his tongue so easily. Equally as nice is the realization that he apparently wants to be included in things that touch James. Not that he hasn’t been so far, but Sherlock hasn’t been giving him much of a choice when putting James in his care for a while or demanding parenting advice. 

“Price isn’t an issue,” Sherlock says, standing so he can come sit in his chair across from John; the sofa is much too far.

John lets out a brief chuckle. “Have you _looked_ at those prices?”

“Not really,” Sherlock admits. “But that folder was prepared by Mycroft, at our mother’s request. You can be sure one of them will foot the bill the moment James decides where he wants to go.”

“And you’re okay with that?” John asks, sounding puzzled.

Sherlock shrugs. “If they want to spend money on something I deem absolutely unnecessary, why should I care?”

“Because he’s your son?”

The words take Sherlock by surprise, though he’s not sure why. He’s acutely aware of the role he has elected to play in James’ life, and tries to do his best to rise to the challenge. That is after all why he’s been teaching James himself; an answer to James’ intelligence, which he doubts would be challenged in a school setting. It’s also why he’s letting James decide whether to go to school, and if so where; Sherlock knows all too well what being enrolled against his will feels like, and the last thing James needs is to be forced to do anything.

“I’m not sure how paying for incompetent teachers to allow his brain to rot would make me a better father,” he says, a little cross.

“That’s not what I meant. Just… If you let them take charge of that, what else will they take charge of? You always complain your brother interferes too much in your life, so I’m surprised you’d be fine with this. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be,” he adds after a second, grimacing. “This is not any of my business, I realize that and I—”

“It is if you want it to be,” Sherlock cuts in. “If you and I… Well. Having two parents is probably better when one of them has no clue how to be a parent.”

The worry that started to color John’s eyes fades away and he relaxes in his seat, resting his temple against his fist and considering Sherlock.

“I’m not sure why you think I know anything more than you do about that topic,” he says with a self-deprecating smile. “But you know I’m happy to help if I can.”

Which is not really an answer to the offer of being a parent to James, Sherlock notes, though he doesn’t comment on it. There’s no need to rush for that, either.

Silence settles around them, familiar and comfortable. Sherlock is acutely aware of how close their feet are on the carpet. He wouldn’t need to stretch very much to press his foot against John’s – which is a silly think to think about, let alone actually do. Still, it’s oddly pleasing to know that he could do it, if he so chose, and John would probably be okay with such a small, casual contact. It wouldn’t mean anything – and at the same time, it would mean the world if Sherlock dared.

When John stands to go make tea, Sherlock still hasn’t moved, and when he returns with two cups the moment has passed.

“I talked to my landlord,” John says after taking a small sip. “We’ll end the lease at the end of the year. That gives me a couple of months to pack up everything, and he’ll have time to find new renters.”

“If you need help packing…” Sherlock offers cautiously. Is this another one of those things John needs to do on his own?

“I know,” John says with a small nod and an even smaller smile. It’s neither agreement nor refusal, and Sherlock isn’t sure what to make of it, but that’s okay. No rush.

Sherlock has just finished his tea when James appears, wearing pajamas and clutching his blanket and pillow to his chest. He stands by the door for a few seconds, as though seeking permission to approach. That’s unexpected, although his presence downstairs is not. After the talk they had that morning, it was pretty much a given. This is exactly why a boarding school is a terrible idea.

Only when Sherlock has nodded at James and tilted his head to the sofa does John notice James. Only when John smiles at him does James move forward. He settles there in his usual blanket cocoon while Sherlock stands to go pick up his violin. John takes the empty cups to the kitchen and soon returns.

Sherlock sets bow to strings and hesitates for a second about what to play. It’s been a strange day, and he’s in a strange sort of mood. What comes out in the end is something quiet and soft that lulls James toward sleep and draws a gentle smile to John’s lips.

Another quiet night. It’s almost as though nothing changed today. And yet, everything did.


	4. Irrational Fears

Dawn finds Sherlock sprawled in his armchair, his feet propped on the edge of John’s. He had to push the chairs a little closer for it to be comfortable. Just a little. Barely noticeable. Certainly not worth the trouble of pushing them further apart again.

His laptop is perched on his lap. He’s been researching for hours, drawing up statistics charts to help James choose the best school. He almost hoped to add to the list of choices, but Mycroft’s dossier, unsurprisingly, was dead-on. He’s going to be insufferably smug when James picks a school.

“Did you sleep at all?”

The question, muffled by a rustling of blankets, ends on a yawn. Sherlock glances at the sofa to see James sit up. He’s rubbing at his eyes with his closed fists. His hair is a mess, sticking up every which way; for once, he looks exactly like what he is. A child.

“Four hours and forty minutes,” Sherlock says. “That’s how much _you_ slept. It’s not enough. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m not tired anymore,” James protests, another yawn belying his words. “And I bet you didn’t sleep.”

“Sleep’s boring,” Sherlock mutters. “I was doing some research about where the top surgeons and medical specialists in the country went to school. There are some definite trends…”

All he needs is one look to know his research, right now, doesn’t hold James’ interest. The way he’s biting his thumbnail is a dead giveaway that something bothers him.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks.

James shrugs. “Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar when you’ve just woken up. Try again. The truth.”

For a few seconds, James is absolutely still. Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes off him; he won’t let him disappear this time. Eventually, James’ shoulders slump ever so slightly.

“You didn’t sleep because I took the sofa. I’m sor—”

“Don’t,” Sherlock interrupts. “I wouldn’t have slept anyway.”

Wrong choice of words; he can tell when James’ eyes narrow ever so briefly. Closing the laptop, he stands and walks over to the desk to put it down. He’s debating going out to get nicotine patches – the closest shop will still be closed at this hour, but he’ll find something open – when behind him James asks, ever so quietly, “Do you ever get bad dreams, too?”

Denial rises to Sherlock’s tongue, automatic and instinctive. Admitting to bad dreams used to mean a worried Mummy, and another couple hours wasted sitting in a psychiatrist’s office. The lie dies on his lips before becoming words. Lying to James, especially about this, would be unsettling.

Still, voicing the truth would be no less uncomfortable. 

“Are they dreams,” he asks instead, returning to his armchair, “or memories?”

James shifts a little, tightening the blanket around his shoulders. “Memories,” he mumbles.

“Have you been practicing with your mind palace?”

James seems a little taken aback by the change of topic; he answers with something that sounds like reluctance.

“I have, yes. But I had to start again from scratch.” At Sherlock’s questioning look, he continues. “I used my old home the first time and it didn’t work too well so I had to pick another place.”

His old home… His father’s house, then. The place where stained wood marks the spot where James saw someone die; where other unpleasant, painful things happened. Sherlock once told him using a familiar place could make things easier, but that was before he knew the kind of home James has known.

“What place are you using now?”

James’ eyes flit around the room. “This flat.”

“And how often do you review your cues?”

“I don’t know. Every other night?”

Sherlock taps his fingers over the armrests, thinking. On one hand, he thinks he knows how to help put an end to James’ nightmares. On the other, if it doesn’t work, his suggestion might cause James more mental distress. Is it worth the risk?

A look at James’ tired, sunken eyes, and Sherlock has his answer.

“I want you to try something when you go to bed tonight. You’re going to think of your best memories with your father, and assign them cues in your mind palace. Then every night, right before sleep, you’ll review your mind palace, and finish with those cues.”

He can see James processing the request, understanding the idea behind it: if he goes to sleep with pleasant memories fresh in his mind, maybe less pleasant ones will have a harder time slipping into his dreams.

“How many good memories should I have?” he asks, his brow furrowing.

“You don’t need many,” Sherlock says, pretending he doesn’t suspect James doesn’t _have_ many. “Just pick the very best ones. Maybe that riding competition you won could be one?”

That’s definitely a good one; just a mention of it, and a smile bursts on James’ lips. It doesn’t stay there long, though.

“What about…” His voice cracks and he starts over. “What about Sebastian? I don’t have good memories of him. Except for the memory of you killing him. Should I use that?”

If Sherlock could make it so that James didn’t have that memory at all, would he do it? He’s seen too many deaths, but maybe that one he needed to witness for himself. It just doesn’t seem to bring him much comfort to know for certain Moran can’t get to him anymore.

“No, we’ll try something different for him. You’re going to add a dungeon to the flat. As deep as you can imagine, with steel doors. A padded cell. Chains. Make it a cage no one could escape—”

“And imagine Sebastian in there?” James finishes in a small voice.

Sherlock nods. “Do you think you can do that?”

“I can try.” After a beat, he asks, “Do you have a dungeon in your palace? Who do you keep in it?”

“Start working on picturing it,” Sherlock says, standing abruptly. “Remember, no one can escape from it.”

Before James can say anything else, Sherlock leaves the room. He’s not running, he tells himself. He’s just been wearing these clothes for much too long, and a shower sounds heavenly just about now. He’s not at all trying to avoid thinking of his own dungeon and what lies in there.

It takes a long time before his mind clears, but when he finally turns the water off, he feels refreshed, almost as though he got a good night of sleep. And now that he can think clearly again, he realizes he has nothing to wear except for a towel. His clothes are in his room – and so is John.

Behind the frosted glass of the en-suite door, his bedroom is dark. If John is still asleep, Sherlock thinks he might be able to tiptoe in and grab some clothes without waking him, but the odds are pretty low. It’s more likely that John would wake. How would he react to finding Sherlock by his bed, wearing nothing more than a towel? Not too well, Sherlock suspects. He’s worn next to nothing around John in the past, but the parameters have changed; nudity meant little before, whereas now it could be interpreted as an overture.

Before he can decide whether to open the door or not, the light turns on in the bedroom. Quiet sounds announce John is now awake. Sherlock shifts from foot to foot, squinting a little as though it’ll help him see more than vague shadows through the frosted glass.

Until suddenly, he _can_ see more than vague shadows. John’s body is blurry but well delineated; he’s standing right behind the door. And if he’s that close, he has to be able to see Sherlock, too.

Knocking against the center of the glass, John asks, loud enough that his voice easily carries through, “Sherlock? Are you finished in there?”

“I… Yes. I just need some clothes from the bedroom.”

He rests his fingers on the handle. Before he can push down, it moves under his hand. He lets go as John opens the door. 

Seconds pass as they stand there, Sherlock with a towel around his waist, John in his dressing gown. John blinks twice before clearing his throat, his gaze resolutely directed at Sherlock’s face.

“Morning,” he says, stepping a little to the side to allow Sherlock to come in.

Sherlock doesn’t move, however, his mind suddenly preoccupied by the sight of John’s suitcases lined up against the wall. 

“We should get a dresser for your clothes. I should have thought of it sooner. Why didn’t you say anything?”

John frowns at him then glances back to see what Sherlock is looking at. “Because I thought I wouldn’t stay very long and do we really have to talk about this now? Just… get in here and get dressed already.”

Is there a little more color in John’s face suddenly, or is Sherlock imagining that? Walking past him into the bedroom, he takes a closer look. Definitely some blushing, and his pupils are dilated, although that might be from the poor lighting. He’s about to say something, but forgets entirely what it was when John points a finger at him.

“Not a word.”

With that, he enters the bathroom, closing – and locking – the door behind him. Seconds later, the water runs in the shower, and Sherlock stops staring at the door. What did John think he would say? His eyes turn to the bed instead, and that’s not much better. The sheets are open, inviting, and still warm when Sherlock runs a hand over the imprint left by John’s body. 

Sherlock’s own treacherous body chooses that moment to remind him he didn’t sleep last night, and didn’t get much rest at all the night before that. If he had something to occupy his mind it wouldn’t matter, but right now all he can think of is this bed, which John just vacated, in which he’ll sleep again, in which he’ll welcome Sherlock eventually. Probably. Maybe. And it shouldn’t matter, really. Transport, all of it, and if it never mattered to Sherlock before, why should it matter now? He has John’s presence, John’s regard, why should he want anything more?

No reason at all, except that he does.

Shaking his head at his own mental meanderings, he forces himself away from his own inviting bed and gets dressed quickly, reminding himself that, for all intents and purposes, this is _not_ his bed at the moment.

Leaving the bedroom and those thoughts behind, he finds James in the kitchen, dressed in his customary suit, with the notable absence of a tie. Sherlock isn’t going to comment on that, though he supposes the change stems from the discussion they had yesterday.

“I made tea,” James announces, quite unnecessarily; Sherlock can see that much, especially when James is handing him a cup. “And you received two text messages and a call from Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Did you read them?” Sherlock asks after taking a sip.

James looks almost affronted. “Of course not. I just looked at the screen to see who it was. Well, I don’t know that the texts were from him too, but they were right after the call so…”

His voice trails off as Sherlock strides to the desk to retrieve his phone. Lestrade didn’t leave a message. His first text is an address. The second is just one word.

 _Ears_.

If he thinks he can entice Sherlock with one word, it has to mean it’s a really baffling case. Although granted, he sometimes finds baffling the most obvious things. Sherlock types a quick answer as he drinks his tea.

_Most people have two of those. Nothing extraordinary about them.  
SH_

“Are we going to a crime scene?” James asks from the kitchen, and there’s no mistaking the hopeful tone in his voice.

“Probably,” Sherlock says. There’s always the possibility he’ll solve whatever it is before leaving the flat, but with only one word it’d take a true stroke of genius.

Fresh out of his shower but already clothed for the day, John joins James in the kitchen for breakfast. Lestrade’s answer comes in.

_These came in a box through the mail, delivered to an old lady._

A second message comes up right away.

_But if that’s not ‘extraordinary’ enough for you, feel free to give it a pass._

Sherlock eyes the proceedings in the kitchen. Tea halfway consumed. One piece of toast for John, one and a half for James. Five more minutes here, fifteen in the cab.

_ETA 20 minutes.  
SH_

_Should I bother reminding you it’s no place for a child?_

_You lost that argument weeks ago. Don’t be boring.  
SH_

Whether he feels insulted by Sherlock’ words or takes them to heart, Lestrade doesn’t reply. After a while, Sherlock pockets his phone and takes his empty cup into the kitchen.

“We have a case. Severed ears sent through the mail.”

“Lovely,” John says with a slight snort. “Can’t wait to hear about that.”

There’s something in the way he says this… Sherlock isn’t the only one to pick up on it, as James asks, “Aren’t you coming?”

John shakes his head and finishes his tea before answering. “I might join you later if Sherlock doesn’t solve it before noon. I have a physical therapy session for my arm.”

“You can do that at home,” Sherlock objects.

“I did. Yesterday. If I miss too many sessions my therapist will get unpleasant. I’ll text you when I’m done to know where you are.”

With that, he stands from the table, sets his cup in the sink and starts for the door. Sherlock is following him before he even decides to do so.

“Did I do something wrong?” he blurts out when John pauses in the hallway to slip his jacket on. That’s absolutely not what he intended to say, and he has to wince at how pathetic the question sounds. He tries to make up for it with a more detached, “We haven’t had a good Yard case in three weeks. Are you sure you don’t want to come? You’ll need the details for the blog.”

“You can tell me all about it later,” John says with a small smile before adding more quietly, “And you didn’t do anything. What we talked about yesterday… It doesn’t mean we’re going to spend every moment together, you know.”

Sherlock is acutely aware of that fact. After all, yesterday John spent the entire afternoon away, and now he doesn’t want to come on a new case. Is he having second thoughts? Is Sherlock going to lose him after all?

His fears must show on his face because John’s expression softens a little even as he rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll come. But you’ll have to help me with my exercises later. And tomorrow I will go, case or no case.”

Sherlock agrees readily, though already he wonders – if he does a good enough job in the role of therapist, will John need to go tomorrow, or the day after? He spends the entirety of the cab ride on his phone, learning about the types of physical therapy recommended following a broken arm, and almost forgets he’s on his way to a new case.


	5. Small Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thank you for your kind words.  
> Things have been going slowly and pretty smoothly so far. Enjoy it while it lasts...

By now, they have a routine for crime scenes. Lestrade gets grumpy and refuses James entry, Sherlock points out yet again his policy is idiotic, and Donovan, grumbling and rolling her eyes as though she’s not fond of James, says she’ll keep an eye on him. Sherlock checks that’s okay with James, and they all move on. For his part, John seems to be very careful to stay out of the argument.

“They’re just ears,” Sherlock mutters, following Lestrade inside the unfortunate recipient’s house. “An actual body is different, but ears? Just yesterday Molly showed him lungs and he thought that was fascinating.”

He looks at John to take him to witness, but John only gives him a grim smile while Lestrade sighs.

“Just put yourself in my shoes for two seconds. If it comes out that I let a child onto my crime scenes, never mind how sanitized they are or how keen he is, I’ll lose my job. And you, you’ll be lucky if you don’t get investigated for emotional abuse.”

Sherlock huffs a little more. As if he’d willingly do anything to hurt James. As if James wasn’t perfectly capable to raise objections when he doesn’t want to do something. This is all incredibly dull, and the fact that it happens every time doesn’t change that.

“You let him in that one time,” he reminds Lestrade.

“The scene had already been… Why are we still arguing about this? John, help me out, here.”

Letting out a quiet chuckle, John shakes his head. “I’m not touching that one. I’m just here to observe. Speaking of, why are we here? Shouldn’t you have taken those things to a lab already? It’s not like we’re going to find out anything from the house.”

While Lestrade explains the package and its contents were dropped in the middle of the recipient’s sitting room when she fainted, Sherlock can’t help but frown at nothing in particular. After all this time, john should know that every detail can be the one that unlocks a case, including details about the victim, or in this case the person who received those bits of victim. Part of him wants to remind John, and he barely manages to hold back his acerbic retort. Another part of him can’t help but think that if he voices that retort, if he is anything other than on his best behavior with John, things will turn sour between them. He can’t allow that to happen, not anymore, not when it has the potential to become so much more than a vague fantasy that kept him fighting – kept him alive – when he needed a push.

“Sherlock?” John touches his arm and Sherlock startles. “Are you with us?”

He blinks a few times, taking in John’s slightly worried expression and Lestrade’s frown. Clearing his throat, he nods and looks around, focusing on what’s in front of him and pushing the rest back to analyze later. He’s going to need to find some balance. He wants John here, _needs_ him here, but at the same time John’s mere presence is a distraction. It can’t go on like that for long before someone notices.

And as a matter of fact, someone does notice: John himself, though it’s hours before he says anything.

The case is a simple matter of adultery, vengeance and mistaken identities, easily solved so that by the time Sherlock’s phone chimes its lunchtime alarm, they’re already home and sitting in front of warmed-up leftovers.

“Sergeant Donovan was telling me about your first case with the Met,” James says in between two bites of food.

Sherlock loses his appetite instantly.

“Did she.” His voice sounds flat and cold; too much so. Both John and James turn curious looks to him. “And what did she say?” he asks, standing up under the cover of helping himself to a glass of water.

Did she say Sherlock stumbled onto a crime scene while too high to realize it might not be the best idea to be around the police right then? Did she mention how she, not yet a sergeant but eager to prove herself, tried to turn him around, but Lestrade heard the string of deductions he was making and came to listen to him, ignoring Donovan when she pointed out Sherlock’s state? Did she say how she was the one who took him to lock up, giving him the chance to deduce every last inch of her in front of her male colleagues, something she never forgave him for? Did she say Lestrade got him out of the holding cell and invited him to come back for a chat when he was off the drugs?

“She said a body was dumped into the middle of the street and you were just passing by on your way home, and you could tell everything about the murder even though the man hadn’t been killed there and it was the middle of the night so you could barely see anything.” The edge of awe in James’ words morphs into what sounds like amusement. “And she said you started shouting at her when they wouldn’t listen, so she arrested you and you never forgave her for it and that’s why you hate her. Is it true?”

For a few seconds, Sherlock isn’t quite sure how to answer. None of it is a lie per se, but it’s not the entire truth either. Why Donovan would want to cover for his past mistakes, he cannot fathom.

“I don’t _hate_ her,” he says, evading the rest of a thorny topic. “I don’t care about her enough to hate her.”

“That wasn’t the whole story,” John says, a little while later, after lunch has been consumed and James has retreated upstairs. Muffled piano notes make it clear he’s not eavesdropping now, which is certainly why John brings the topic back up. “She didn’t lock you up just for shouting.”

For a few seconds, Sherlock remains quiet, his gaze focused on his laptop screen though he’s not reading anymore. He’s acutely aware of the chair under him, the edge of the desk digging into his wrist, the noises rising from the street and covered by the piano. He’s extremely aware, also, of how close John is, standing not even a meter away, hands in his pockets, relaxed but oddly purposeful.

“How much do you know?” he finally asks, glancing up at John, who shrugs.

“Lestrade’s version is a little more… colorful.”

Annoyance flashes through Sherlock, though he couldn’t say if it’s directed at Lestrade for talking about what is practically ancient history or at John for bringing it up when he obviously knows all there is to know. With that annoyance come less than gentle words. Sherlock swallows them back the best he can.

“There it is again,” John says with something startlingly close to satisfaction as he draws a chair and sits down on Sherlock’s right.

“There is what?”

“That look on your face. The one that says you want to say something but you’re not going to. I’ve been seeing that look for weeks without quite understanding what it meant but that’s what it is, isn’t it?”

Lie or admit to it? Sherlock hesitates, finally offers the lightest of nods.

“It dawned on me this morning,” John continues. “When you asked what you did wrong. You can’t keep tiptoeing around me, you know. If you want to say something, say it. I’m not going to break.”

Glancing at the laptop, Sherlock can remember a very recent incident during which John did break, or as close to it as he ever gets.

“Yesterday morning,” he says, talking slowly as he picks his words with care, “I spoke without thinking and upset you enough that you stormed out. I’d rather avoid any repeats.”

John does two things, then, that surprise Sherlock. First he laughs, a quiet burst quickly extinguished but still a laugh. Then he reaches out and rests his hand on Sherlock’s knee.

“I was storming out of this flat within a week of moving into it,” he says with a crooked smile. “It’s not me storming out you want to avoid. It’s me not coming back.”

‘Obviously’ would be Sherlock’s reply if he could think; hard to, however, when so much of his mind is taken up by that simple touch on his knee. It’s all he can do to even keep listening to John.

“Let me tell you how this relationship is going to work,” John goes on, squeezing Sherlock’s knee once, ever so lightly. “You’re going to stop treating me like I’m breakable. You’re going to call me an idiot, tell me I’m slow, or blind, or whatever else whenever you feel like it. I will ignore it the way I used to. I will occasionally leave the flat to get some fresh air. And I _will_ come back. Always. All right?” 

Sherlock wants nothing more than to believe him, but how can he? He’s never felt about anyone the way he feels about John, never had a friend like him, let alone anything more than a friend, but he’s had a handful of people in his bed. It never lasted long, because he could never be bothered to be anything or anyone other than himself. The same thing will happen now if he doesn’t try to temper himself; he’s sure of it.

“I’m not a… pleasant man,” he says diffidently. “I fear while I was gone you forgot exactly how unpleasant I can be.”

“And I think you forgot I can take care of myself. I know who you are, Sherlock. I know what you’re like. ”

The fact that if he developed feelings for Sherlock knowing all that they’re unlikely to change now remains unvoiced, but it’s in his eyes as they lock with Sherlock’s, clear as day – as clear as those three words Sherlock can still hear in his mind as though John had just said them.

“All right,” Sherlock finally says. He has to look away, so he looks down again at the hand still resting on his knee. He could swear he can feel its warmth all the way to his heart, silly notion as it may be.

“Is this…” John starts to lift his hand, then stills. “Do you mind?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It was… unexpected. But no, I don’t mind. At all. Although you’ll need that hand if we are to do those therapy exercises I’m supposed to help you with.” 

After one last, gentle squeeze, John lets go, and Sherlock immediately regrets the loss of contact though it did feel like it was almost too much. He angles the laptop toward John to show him the diagram there. Back to safer grounds.

“Shall we start with this one?”

*

“Come on, it’s been weeks, you can push harder than that. I can take it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What did I say about being breakable? As in, I’m not?”

“Was that supposed to be English?”

“Shut up, Sherlock! Harder!”

Two knocks on the door punctuate John’s words. Sherlock doesn’t stop pushing against his palm – nor does he push harder; despite what John says, he’s not ready for more yet.

“Come in,” he calls out, and Mrs. Hudson opens the door, though she hesitates on the threshold for a second before she bustles in, carrying a plate of biscuits.

“I was afraid I might be disturbing you,” she says, spots of color high on her cheeks.

“Disturbing us?” John says, standing to take the plate from her. “When you bring us treats? Never.”

She returns his smile and watches him walk over to the kitchen. “Yes, well, it sounded like… oh, never mind that. And those are for James. Is he still studying hard, the poor dear?”

“Studying is hardly a hardship for him,” Sherlock says with a little huff, leaning back in his armchair. “He certainly doesn’t require biscuits or any treats for it.”

James has been studying for a few days, now. The day school he chose, right on the outskirts of London, is ready to take him when the new term starts in January, but they want him to take a comprehensive exam first to check where his ‘homeschooling’ left him. The list they provided should pose no problem, although James does need to catch up on geometry and citizenship, two topics neither Moriarty nor Sherlock had much interest in teaching him.

“Whether he requires them or not, they’re for him so don’t eat them all. And don’t pretend you won’t start eating them as soon as I walk out that door, Sherlock. I know you.”

With that silly declaration, she turns around and goes back downstairs. Sherlock joins John in the kitchen. Tea will apparently be ready soon. No reason to wait, really. He takes a biscuit from the plate on the table, only to have John throw him an amused look.

“She was right about one thing, at least,” he says, teasing, then sobers up. “Did you hear her? She thought we were…”

“Having intercourse,” Sherlock finishes when he falters. “Given the nature of our conversation at the time, you have to admit the assumption was reasonable. Especially since she has believed us intimate for years. It wasn’t because she noticed anything different, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” John replies, no tension in his voice to betray he’s anything less than truthful. After clearing his throat, he adds, “Although since we are on the topic…”

Sherlock’s head jerks up and he swallows hard around his mouthful of suddenly tasteless biscuit. Other than their daily therapy exercises and small but affectionate gestures that are becoming more frequent, nothing much has changed. Even the way John looks at him is the same as ever, and Sherlock has realized how blind he was, all this time. And they certainly haven’t talked again about sharing a bed.

Except that they are talking about it now, apparently.

“Listen, I’m not… I mean, not yet.”

Or aren’t they?

“But we could get some things out of the way. So when we’re ready to move forward we don’t have to worry about… that.”

Sherlock feels extremely slow when it takes him a couple of seconds to understand what John is talking about in his roundabout way.

“Oh. Tests. Blood tests. You want me to get tested for sexually transmitted diseases.”

John’s lips quirk into a thin smile. “Us. I want us to get tested. Is that okay?”

It’s been weeks, but every time John says ‘us’, the same alarming flutter still echoes in Sherlock’s chest. He could say that John doesn’t need to do this; he must have gone through this along with Mary. But drawing her shadow back into the room right now would diminish that ‘us’, so all Sherlock does is nod.

That, and take a step forward. Then another one. John takes the last one. Their mouths meet, press briefly together. When they part again, they’re both smiling.


	6. Tested

Sherlock is moving before he’s even fully awake, batting away the hand that’s trying to cut him, brand him, hurt him. At the same time, he tries to shift back against the cell wall, fight and flight engaging together in his sleepy brain.

A sharp intake of breath pierces through the haze that is Sherlock’s mind, through the sounds of his own panting breaths, of the blood beating in his ears. He blinks a few times and the present reasserts itself over images that he can’t seem to erase. He tried to, again, earlier, and all he did was summon them into his dreams.

“Sherlock?”

James’ voice is a wary whisper coming from the darkened sitting room. Just beyond arm’s reach, Sherlock estimates. Now he’s beyond reach. But a moment ago…

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, and the question is muffled by the hand he rubs over his face.

“It’s nothing,” James says, which Sherlock interprets as ‘yes.’ He continues just as quietly; it’s late – or maybe early. Still night. He’s trying not to wake John. “Are you all right?”

What is all right? Sherlock is safe, he’s home with people who care about him and whom he cares about in return. Shouldn’t that be enough for ‘all right’? So why can’t he make himself say he is?

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asks instead, sitting up and narrowing his eyes to get a better look at James despite the lack of light. He’s rubbing his arm. Is that where Sherlock hit him? How hard?

“I came down for a glass of water,” he says, dropping his arms at his sides. “And I heard… I didn’t know if I ought to wake you or not.”

Sherlock’s heart is starting to calm down. His back twinges; phantom pain or the discomfort of too many nights sleeping on the sofa, he couldn’t say.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

“You were asleep,” James says, matter of fact. “Are you all right now? I can stay down here if you want.”

The offer, Sherlock understands, is sweet. It’s also humiliating. He’s supposed to help James with his bad dreams, and to some degree, he might have done that because lately James has come down to sleep on the sofa only very occasionally – unless him being awake in the middle of the night means things aren’t quite as good as Sherlock thought. The reverse, on the other hand, James helping Sherlock, is not something that should happen.

“Go back to bed,” he says. “It’s late.”

James takes in a breath and Sherlock is already cringing at what he’s going to say – what he’s going to ask. In the end, though, he says nothing, and after a second or two he starts walking away. Fingers buried in his hair, Sherlock listens to his quiet steps. Before they reach the hallway, he mumbles, “Thank you.”

Whether James hears him or not, there is no answer. 

Sherlock lies down again, arranging the blanket over himself although he has no intention of going back to sleep. Instead, he tries to focus his mind. If he can’t delete those memories yet, maybe he can stash them where they won’t reach the surface so easily. Or at least, he can try.

*

Across the width of the kitchen table, a blue strip of electrical tape stands starkly against the wood. Sherlock frowns at it, and at its twin, lying in a parallel stripe just five centimeters to the side. The space between those two blue lines is empty, and supposed to remain so. Buffer zone, John called it. The right side of the table – the longest part – is for meals. The left side is for Sherlock’s experiments. It’s just deep enough to accommodate Sherlock’s microscope.

Sherlock does not, emphasis on the not, like the arrangement.

At all.

“It’s not enough room,” he protests, shifting the microscope a little to straighten it up.

“Yeah, I’ll agree with you on that one,” John says, and when he glances back from where he’s stirring beans in a pan on the stove, a small smile is stretched on his lips. “It’s going to be tight for three people to eat there, but we’ll manage.

“I meant this side of the table and you know it,” Sherlock protests, gesturing. “How am I supposed to get anything done with so little room?”

“You’ll manage, too,” John says, still smiling.

“We’ve eaten plenty of times in the sitting room. I don’t see why we can’t keep doing that.”

“Because we have a perfectly fine kitchen table to eat on, that’s why. Get James, supper’s ready.”

Still glaring at the table, Sherlock doesn’t go, pondering instead whether John would notice if he moved the tape. If he did it gradually, shifting the two stripes millimeters at a time over a period of several weeks, it’s unlikely John would pick up on it. James would, but he might not say anything; he understands that experiments are important. Idly, he runs a finger along the edge of the tape, checking how easily his nail slips underneath.

“Sherlock.” 

The word is a murmur, spoken just from inches away. Sherlock jerks out of his thoughts to find John standing oh, so close. Have his eyes always been so blue, so dark, so deep? Sherlock has a whole mental chart of the color of John’s eyes depending on lighting, what he’s wearing, even his mood, but every so often a new color seems to pop up and throw Sherlock’s mind into cataloguing mode again.

John’s hand rests on top of his on the table and squeezes gently. Then again, and this time it’s not so gentle anymore.

“Don’t you even think about it,” he says, and if he’s still smiling, there’s now an edge of steel to the curve of his lips. 

Sherlock doesn’t look away, but on the table, his hand moves under John’s. His fingertip pushes at the tape until it lifts off the table, then pushes underneath. It breaks with a light snapping sound. Tugging on one loose end until the strip of tape comes cleanly off the table is a matter of two seconds. John draws his hand back and raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Seriously? It hasn’t even been a full day. You _agreed_ to it!”

Balling up the strip of blue tape, Sherlock throws it into the trash bin.

“I agreed before I realized you’d be ridiculous about this,” he snaps. “I’ve been accommodating enough but I—”

He can’t finish, not with John’s mouth suddenly pressing hard against his, John’s hands framing his face and holding him in place. It lasts for three heartbeats and ends with a tentative swipe of John’s tongue against Sherlock’s bottom lip. When John pulls back, his grin is practically triumphant. Sherlock has absolutely no idea what’s going on and can only stare, blank minded and confused.

“You’re right,” John says, still grinning. “You have been rather accommodating. You can have a bit more room. Now get James before supper burns.”

It’s too easy, much too easy, and Sherlock wonders if he should say as much before he retreats and goes upstairs to get James. He understands halfway up the staircase what just happened. A test. It was a test, wasn’t it? John has mentioned several times recently that he doesn’t need Sherlock to treat him like a child – like he treats James, with every ounce of patience he can muster, more patience than he ever knew he is capable of. It’s the first disagreement they’ve had; the first time the issue meant enough to Sherlock that he had to push back. Was that what this was all about? John pushing him far enough so that he’d push back?

It dawns on him, right then and there, that he was wrong, very wrong about that whole feelings mess that has been making his life so complicated.

He thought it was something finite. He thought there was a certain depth his feelings for John could reach, had reached, and that it’d never change. But he was wrong, because having realized John just performed an experiment on him, Sherlock suddenly loves him a tiny little bit more.

Maybe one of these days he’ll even manage to use the actual word aloud.

*

It’s been a month since James wore a tie, but this morning he comes out of the bathroom with his favorite one knotted carefully around his neck. He’ll have to wear one when he goes to school; it’s part of the uniform. Today, he’s only going there to take his evaluation tests, but apparently he intends to make the best possible impression.

Sherlock doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t ask if he’s nervous or even if he feels ready. The ruler-straight part in his hair, the tie and his shined shoes all answer the first question, while the fact that James was reading a fantasy novel last evening rather than studying answers the second.

“Nervous?” John asks as James sits across from him at the table for breakfast.

Safely hidden behind his microscope, Sherlock rolls his eyes. Sometimes, he wonders how John ever managed to make a career out of being a detective when he can’t observe the simplest things. Unless he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to? Frowning, Sherlock looks up, and sure enough the expression on John’s face makes it clear he expects James’ reply.

“A little.” He doesn’t look up from his toast and the layer of blueberry jam he’s spreading in an overly precise manner. “I’ve never taken a test like this one.”

“You’ll do fine,” John says warmly in between sips of coffee. “They just want to see how much you know. Don’t worry too much about it, stay relaxed, and it’ll be over before you know it. Right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock understands, then, the point of asking a question John knew the answer to. The whole thing is for James’ benefit, to soothe his nerves a little. And he must need those words of reassurance, trite as they may be, because he now turns bright, almost hopeful eyes to Sherlock.

“At this point nervousness is counter-productive,” Sherlock says, pulling the slide from under his microscope and setting a new one in. “You’ve learned everything they said they would test you on, your memory is excellent, and the stakes are insignificant.”

“Like I said,” John says, flashing an amused smile at Sherlock as he stands, “don’t worry too much.”

He pats James’ shoulder on his way out to the bathroom, and while James tenses, almost imperceptibly, he relaxes again at once and continues eating his breakfast like nothing happened. Definite progress for someone who, a few short months ago, used to do his best to avoid any sort of casual contact.

“Are you going to wait at the school until I’m done?” James asks after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock writes his observations in the notebook next to him before answering absently.

“No, we’ll come back for you at noon.”

“Oh. Do we have a case today?”

He sounds disappointed at the thought of missing something, and that’s probably why Sherlock ends up saying too much.

“No. We have an appointment at the surgery.”

It’s almost alarming how quickly James can go from disappointed to scared. “Are you ill?”

Sherlock looks up, and the same fear he heard in James’ voice is right there in his eyes. 

“I’m fine. We’re both fine.”

It doesn’t seem enough to reassure James. “Then why do you need an appointment?”

Pushing his chair back from the table, Sherlock ponders his answer as he goes to help himself to a cup of coffee. On the one hand, it’s not a topic he cares to discuss, let alone with James. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to make this appear to be a taboo subject. It’s quite a fine line and Sherlock is determined to tread it carefully.

“When two adults are thinking of becoming intimate it is, I am told, good practice to ensure neither contracted a disease during a prior sexual encounter. That is done through blood tests. That’s what this appointment is for.”

He watches James over his cup of coffee, noting first the slight look of confusion, then understanding, quickly followed by a furrowed brow.

“You mean you and John are going to have sex?” James finally asks.

Sherlock winces. That’s certainly more blunt than he expected.

“Not that it concerns you,” he says dryly, “but that is a distinct possibility.”

If James hears the warning in Sherlock’s voice, he doesn’t heed it. “Why?” he asks. “I thought you didn’t care for sex.”

“Again, not your concern.” After a beat, however, he can’t help but ask, “Why would you think that?”

James shrugs, his gaze dropping back to his abandoned piece of toast. “Father called you—”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupts him. “I’ve been told.”

Another shrug. “I didn’t know what it meant when I heard it but I know now.”

“Well just because you heard your father say something doesn’t mean it was true.”

Again, Sherlock tries to make it clear through his tone that the discussion is over; again, James ignores him.

“So you’re not a virgin?” he asks, looking up again.

Sherlock turns his back on him to refill his cup and dump in generous spoonfuls of sugar. “I really don’t see why we’re having this conversation.”

“Why do people choose to have sex?”

With a put-upon sigh, Sherlock turns back to him. They’re not treading a line anymore; they’re doing cartwheels over it. “James—”

“I’m not asking about you,” James says quickly before Sherlock can demand he drop the subject. “Just people in general. Why do people do that?”

Considering the question, whom it’s coming from, and the fact that the shower is just shutting off now and it’ll be a moment before John comes to his help, Sherlock resigns himself to answering, though he does so without hiding his exasperation.

“Biological imperative. The urge to mate. The desire for a naturally-occurring chemical high. The need to be physically close to someone when there is already an emotional connection. The pressure of peers and society. Take your pick.”

Shaking his head, James whispers, “But it hurts. Why do so many people want to do something that hurts?”

Sherlock blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Tries to control his murderous urges before he forces out a quiet, raspy, “It’s not supposed to hurt, James.”

Moran died too quickly. Much, much too quickly. Too painlessly as well.

“Oh.” James turns crimson. His shoulders hunch over what’s left of his breakfast. “I didn’t know that.”

Why would he know that? He’s a child, as much as he denies that fact. Forced to grow up faster than most people his age, certainly. Confronted to things children should not know about, definitely. But none of it changes the fact that for another few weeks he’s just a twelve year old boy – and even at thirteen he’ll still be a child.

When Sherlock sits back down behind his microscope and sets his cup down, his hand shakes a little, enough that his cup rattles against the table. He meant to write down something in his notebook but he suddenly can’t recall what it was.

“I think…” James starts a few seconds later, “I don’t like boys. Is that… is that okay?”

He’s peering into his mug like his tea holds all the answers Sherlock doesn’t know he should give him.

“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” Sherlock asks.

“You do.”

That’s not strictly accurate, but is it really the time to discuss Sherlock’s disinterest with genders and labels? Probably not. He sticks to the part that is actually relevant to the conversation.

“Your preferences have nothing to do with mine, or anyone else’s for that matter. You are who you are. I don’t require you to be anyone different.”

James looks actually relieved at that. _Relieved_. What did Sherlock do wrong to make him think he’d get a different answer?

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” Sherlock says a little gruffly, annoyed with himself.

“All right. Good then. But… Sherlock?”

“If that’s another question about my sex life—”

“No, no, I just… I was thinking… Could I please do a blood test too?”

Sherlock isn’t sure what troubles him the most – that he didn’t think if it before, that John, coming out of the bedroom, heard the request and is giving him a ‘what the hell did I miss?’ look, or that James deems it necessary to say ‘please’ for such a thing. 

He should have thought of it, shouldn’t he? He should have done it, months ago. The idea of James seeing a mental health professional was raised several times, but this didn’t occur to him. Mycroft probably thought it’d be unseemly to mention it. And John… John, always so prompt to think the best of Sherlock, no doubt believed James had already received a clean bill of health – because that’s what a parent would do for their child, isn’t it? 

“Yes,” he says as he stands. “Of course. We should go or we’ll be late.”

He wasn’t worried about James taking that school exam before, but now he is. Worried about that, and worried about those blood tests, too, though he tries not to think about it for now.

How well will James be able to focus with those memories dredged up and now fresh in his mind? All that because Sherlock was careless and brought up a topic he should have left alone – a topic they should have touched months ago. If this was a parenting test, he probably failed it, twice over.


	7. Tight Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Headcanon James](http://prettyvk.tumblr.com/post/87460687262/asa-butterfield-james-x)

They get to the school shortly before classes start, and are led through long, bright, crowded corridors by an older student. She plays tour guide along the way, pointing out the computer labs, the science department, the auditorium, mentioning inane details and anecdotes.

Sherlock is bored thirty seconds in. He keeps his hands clenched in his pockets and his eyes roaming, looking for… he’s not sure what. A clue, a hint of something that would allow him to say no, not this school, not any school. He doesn’t see anything of the sort. What he does see is that John is impressed, even asking their guide an occasional question. And James…

James remains silent but he’s not missing a word of what the girl says. Sherlock can almost hear his mind churn as he observes, catalogues, and probably tries to create a mental map of the place so he’s less likely to get lost on his way to class. Every so often, his gaze lingers on a group of pupils chatting or laughing together, and Sherlock remembers what he said when they first talked about him going to school, about how he might get to have friends if he did. He remembers, also, what James said not even three months ago, not very long after they first met, about not needing friends. He’s not too sure what happened along the way to make him change his mind. Unless seeing Sherlock and John’s friendship… no, it can’t be that. Can it?

The girl finally leaves them with some kind of administrative type of person who welcomes Sherlock and James by name with a too bright smile before inquiring about John. She accepts the ‘friend of the family’ line easily enough, though she might not truly believe it, judging by her quick glances between Sherlock and John as she details what James’ day will be like. Sherlock instantly dislikes the woman – taught literature for thirty odd years, divorced, three grown children, came out of retirement because she missed being around kids – but he keeps his mostly-polite mask on.

“We’ll do the testing first to get that out of the way. It’ll take a large part of the morning. After that, I’ve arranged for you to shadow one of your peers into two classes you’ll probably be in when you join us next term, French and History, just to give you an idea of what to expect. Then you’re welcome to stay for lunch, although I know on a first day like this it can sometime feel like a bit much.”

James looks torn, but not for long. Looking up at Sherlock, he asks, “Is it okay if I have lunch here?”

Sherlock isn’t sure why his throat feels so tight. He must be coming down with a cold or something. He nods, and that’s that.

“Good luck,” John says, moments later, when it’s time for James to go show what he knows.

Sherlock nods at him again, forces a smile. He won’t say ‘good luck’, because there’s no luck involved in it. He won’t say ‘do your best’, because James wouldn’t be doing this at all if he didn’t intend to do his best. He won’t say ‘call me if you want to leave and I’ll come right away’, because James is not him and he actually wants to be here. So he says nothing, and clenches his fists a little more tightly in his pockets as they retrace their steps to the exit, now in deserted corridors.

“He’ll be fine,” John says quietly as a cab takes them toward the center of London.

“Of course he’ll be fine.” Sherlock huffs, looking out the window though not seeing much of the street beyond the glass. “Why wouldn’t he be fine?”

“I don’t know. But I do know you’re acting like a worried parent on their kid’s first day at school and I don’t know whether to be amused or terrified.”

Sherlock throws him a appalled look at that, only to discover that John’s grin is infectious. He huffs again, trying to keep his mouth in check.

“Maybe I’m letting my own school days color my expectations of what his will be like,” he admits grudgingly.

John doesn’t reply in words, but the way his hand covers Sherlock’s on the seat between them before giving it a gentle squeeze is an answer in itself. They’re both quiet until they get to the surgery. In the waiting room, as they each fill out some dull questionnaire provided by an overworked nurse, John asks absently, “So, what did I miss this morning?”

Sherlock grunts quietly, a reaction at having to tick the ‘drug use’ box more than one to John’s question. “How much did you hear?”

John’s voice drops a little lower. “I just heard you say something about your sex life, and then James asked for blood tests. Not quite sure how the conversation went from one to the other.”

“In a rather frighteningly logical way,” Sherlock says. “I told him about our plans for the day. He deduced you and I intend to have intercourse at some point. He asked questions about sex. And he finally asked to be tested for STDs.”

John’s lips pinch into a tight line even as his brow furrows. Sherlock waits for the reproach he knows he deserves, but instead John says, “Tell me again how that man died? Was it painful?”

“Broken neck. Definitely not painful enough.”

John sighs, tucking the pen behind the clip of his clipboard. “Should he get a general check up while we’re at it? He looks healthy, but I’m fairly certain he’s underweight for his height.”

He probably is, yes, although he has filled up a little since first coming to Baker Street; regular meals help. Sherlock’s own suits feel a bit too tight, lately. If that’s the price to pay for setting that ‘good example’ John always talks about… Well, it’s not as though Sherlock dislikes sharing meals with them.

The waiting is a lot longer than the actual appointments. John goes first, then Sherlock. The last time Sherlock had blood drawn, the doctor prodded his arms for a few minutes, muttering under his breath, before finally finding a place to stick a needle in. This time, the nurse finds a good vein right away. Sherlock doesn’t look as the needle slides in, but he watches the small vials of blood labeled with his name as she sets them on the counter. When he comes out, John is talking to the secretary, making an appointment for James later that day.

“Do you miss it?” he asks John some time later as they have fish and chips on the park bench, killing time before they have to go pick up James. “Being a doctor. Helping people.”

John shrugs. “Sometimes. Not as much as I thought I would.”

“Would you ever go back to it?”

At that, John gives him a sideways look. “If that’s your way of telling me you don’t want us to work together…”

Sherlock freezes briefly, startled. “What? No. Of course not. I like having you there. I just never thought you’d stop practicing medicine to do this instead.”

“Or you’re just mad you’re not the only one in the world anymore,” John teases. His smile soon fades and he shrugs again, looking ahead of him, his eyes clouded. “It was a way to hold on to you when you… left, I suppose. Mary said…”

Sherlock’s breath hitches in his throat. It’s been weeks since the last time he heard John say her name. After a brief hesitation, just long enough for his Adam’s apple to bob up and down, John finishes the thought.

“A little while after she met you, Mary said she knew now where I got that look from when I put clues together and figure something out. It was the strangest thing to hear her say I’d taken something from you that’s so intrinsically yours.”

What is Sherlock supposed to say to that? He has no idea. No idea why John is bringing it – her – up again now, today of all days when they’ve taken a very practical step toward being together in every sense of the word. But he does know what he’s hearing in John’s voice.

“You miss her,” he says quietly, and it’s not a question.

John blinks and turns his gaze to Sherlock. “I do, yes. And I don’t think I’m ever going to stop, you know.”

Nodding a little numbly, Sherlock looks away. He was jealous of the woman when she was alive, but he can’t, he won’t be jealous of her now, not when she never showed any ill grace toward him despite knowing the depth of John’s affection for him.

“See,” John says softly, “the thing about Mary…” He stops again on her name, but picks up again faster than before. “She completely turned my life around. She gave me a hand up when I had fallen so deep I couldn’t see anything but darkness. I can’t forget that. I’ll always love her and she’ll always be a part of my life. But for the record, over the last few years there are two people who have done that. Pulled me back into the light. And one of them did it twice.”

He stops there, gives Sherlock a meaningful look, and only then does Sherlock realize what John means. He is that person. 

“I haven’t done anything,” he protests despite his too tight throat.

“Yeah, you have. You’ve done a lot. But mostly you’ve been there. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been. But I do know she wouldn’t have wanted me to be alone.”

Gray clouds hide the sun and the chill of autumn envelops them, but Sherlock doesn’t feel it. How could he, with John’s hand so tight, so warm around his?

*

James’ beaming smile when he steps out of the school feels bittersweet to Sherlock. On one hand, there’s no way now he’ll change his mind and decide he doesn’t want to go to school after all. On the other, how could Sherlock be annoyed about that when James is so clearly happy?

“Ridiculously easy,” he says in the cab when John asks about his test. “The last bit was an essay, and I had so much time left that I made it a skip code just so I wouldn’t be bored.”

At Sherlock’s snorts, John raises an amused eyebrow. “And for people who aren’t geniuses, a skip code is..?”

“It’s like a spy code,” James says excitedly. “There’s a text, but there’s also a message hidden inside the text when you read every word out of three for example.”

“That sounds like a complicated thing to write,” John says, not bothering to hide he’s impressed. “What did your secret message say, then?”

“Just that the test was dull and that I hope school is more interesting than that.” His excitement fades a little when he asks, “They won’t be mad at me if they find the message, will they?”

Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture. “They won’t find it. Why would they even look for one?”

How many twelve-year-olds know what a skip code is, let alone can write a meaningful one on the fly while composing an essay? Not many, Sherlock would bet. Not unless they were raised by a master criminal.

“If the test was so dull,” Sherlock asks, “what are you so excited about?”

“The classes were good,” James says at once. “There’s a girl in the French class who’s actually from France and she said she thought I was too because my accent was so good. And the History teacher was interesting. I mean, I knew what he was teaching but he still made it interesting to listen to. And lunch was all right, too. The French girl introduced me to her friends and they were all telling me about the school and the teachers. I think I’ll like it there.”

Like the school, or like the French girl? It’s definitely not the school putting that hint of pink in his cheeks. Sherlock elects to keep his suspicions to himself, at least for now.

Soon enough, James realizes they’re not going toward Baker Street. He’s fine with having a medical check-up today, he says, but his smile all but disappears from that point on.

Back to filling up a questionnaire, Sherlock realizes how little he knows. He can’t answer anything about James’ medical history, be it illnesses he contracted in the past or whether he was vaccinated on schedule. And what he does write in – the explanation as to why they’re seeking testing – is a lie, one John suggested to ward off questions and suspicions of abuse: James was abroad in a third-world country, he drank contaminated water and was briefly hospitalized in a clinic that, to Sherlock’s eyes, did not seem concerned enough with providing a sterile environment, hence the battery of tests he requests be done.

When the pediatrician comes to the waiting room, Sherlock stands to accompany James. The woman gives him a thin smile as she pats James’ shoulder, unaware of how still he has become suddenly.

“We’ll be just fine, Mr. Holmes,” she says. “The nurse will come get you if I have a question James can’t answer. Right, James?”

James’ nod feels oddly strained. Sherlock gives him a look, asking silently if he’s really okay with this. A second nod is a little more convincing, but just barely. Sherlock watches them go toward one of the exam rooms, still unhappy. John tugs on his coat until he sits down again.

“She didn’t buy our story,” he whispers. “She wants to talk to him alone and make sure there’s not another reason for the tests.”

“Don’t be paranoid,” John says. “She’s just doing her job. He’s not a little kid. In most circumstances I wouldn’t have the parents of a teenager in the exam room either.”

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. If that woman upsets James…

They sit in silence, waiting.

They don’t have to wait long.

Merely a handful of minutes pass before a door bangs against a wall somewhere down the hallway. James strides into the waiting room, one arm in his coat, the other fumbling with the sleeve until he finally manages to slide it in.

“I want to leave,” he says, his voice shaking.

Sherlock and John stand up. Before either of them can say a word, the doctor appears behind James. She looks upset.

“James, we’re not—”

“I want to leave,” James repeats, his gaze finding Sherlock’s. “Please.”

Sherlock knows that look. He also knows what usually comes next. James calls them tantrums; to Sherlock, they’ve always looked like panic attacks.

“Let’s go,” he says, already moving.

Sheer relief flashes through James’ face. He stands very close to Sherlock on their way out, and it feels natural for Sherlock to rest his hand on James’ shoulder. His entire body is trembling, small shudders as though he’s cold. Sherlock has half a mind to turn back and talk to that woman, demand to know what the hell she did for James to react this way, but he can’t leave James now, not when he’s gulping the cool air in the street as though it’s water and he’s parched.

“Try to breathe more slowly,” John murmurs, leaning down toward James though not touching him. “You’re hyperventilating. In… out… in… there you go. Better.”

Better, yes; enough so for James to turn reproachful eyes to Sherlock and stammer, “You said… you said it was blood tests. Just… just blood tests.”

“James,” John says quietly, but James isn’t listening.

His voice rises with every word and they start getting strange looks from passersby.

“I pulled up my sleeve but she wanted me to take off my shirt. That wasn’t what you said!”

As Sherlock struggles for words, John tries again, and this time he captures James’ attention.

“ _James_. It was my idea. I thought… I think you need a check-up. She was just going to listen to your heart and lungs. I’m sorry, I thought you knew what check-up meant.”

James blinks repeatedly, looking back and forth between John and Sherlock.

“I don’t want to go back,” he finally says in a small voice.

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock assures him.

“But…” He’s even quieter, now. “What about the blood tests?”

In the end, John gives a short phone call to the surgery where he worked a few years ago. Sherlock doesn’t even mind that he still has Sasha—Sandra—no, Sarah’s number in his contacts. Or at least, not much. John asks her for a favor. Part of it is to not ask him questions. Sherlock can’t hear her reply, but she must agree, because a few minutes’ walk takes them there. A cab would have been faster, but walking helps James finish to calm down.

Sarah greets them in the lobby. Her eyes are full of questions as she takes in Sherlock and James standing next to John, but she doesn’t voice any of them. She unlocks an exam room for them, brings in a tray of medical instruments. And then she closes the door and leaves them to it.

Sherlock stands out of the way against a wall, holding coats and jackets. John rolls ups his sleeves and directs James to do the same while he washes his hands and puts gloves on. He doesn’t pick up the syringe right away, however, and instead checks James’ blood pressure.

“A bit high,” he remarks when he unstraps the band. “But seeing how you just had a panic attack, that’s not unexpected.”

James frowns and mouths the words ‘panic attack’, though he doesn’t say anything and continues to sit on the exam table, allowing John to rub alcohol at the crook of his arm.

“I haven’t done this in years,” John warns as he approaches the needle to James’ arm. “I apologize in advance if I hurt you.”

James doesn’t reply. He holds very still, and never even flinches when the needle slides in and blood starts flowing. He watches as John fills four small tubes, looking interested more than anything else. 

When he asks, “How long does it take to do the tests?” they are his first words since they left the other surgery.

“It doesn’t take very long,” John says, applying a plaster after wiping off the bead of blood that stood bright red against James’ skin. “There’s no rush on these, though, so it’ll be a few days before we hear back.”

He picks up a pen light, then, and shows it to James. “May I?”

One after the other, eyes, ears, throat receive the all clear. It’s with a sliver of hesitation that John finally picks up the stethoscope. 

“How about this,” he says slowly, holding the end out to James. “You put it under your shirt. I’ll tell you where to place it and when to move it. Would that be all right?”

James doesn’t take the stethoscope, and he remains silent long enough that Sherlock clears his throat and says, “It’s fine. We can leave. You don’t have to do this now. Or at all.”

They both look at him, John’s eyes apologetic, as though he fears he pushed too much, James’ dark and blank.

With a slow, slightly shaky hand, James tugs his tie loose, then free from his neck. He sets it behind him then starts on the buttons of his shirt. He has to roll down the sleeve again to take it off, but soon it joins the tie on the examination table. When he begins to tug at his thin undershirt, slowly pulling it up, John wraps the stethoscope around his own neck and turns away. He opens three cupboards before finding a paper gown.

“Do you want me to wait outside?” Sherlock asks.

James’ answer is a quiet, “It’s okay.”

Sherlock has seen the small, round burn scars across James’ clavicle before. What he hasn’t seen is the rest of them, a long, sinuous line across half his torso, forming a large letter S.

“Here, put this on so you don’t get too cold,” John says gently, helping James into the flimsy gown that will do very little to keep him warm or hide the scars.

John doesn’t say anything about those scars, but when he glances at Sherlock, his lips are pinched tightly together and the look in his eyes is the same as when he asked how Moran died.

Front and back, John listens to James’ heart or his lungs, Sherlock isn’t sure which, he just wants it over with already, and for James’ hands, closed so tightly on his knees, to open up again. When John finally says, “All right, it all sounds good, we’re done,” Sherlock lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Are they going to go away?” James asks quietly.

John stills, but for no more than a second.

“The scars?” he asks, his voice gentle but professional. “They’re cigarette burns, right? How old are they?”

James shrugs. “Depends. The last ones are from three months ago, maybe. The oldest ones, three years.”

“Can I have a closer look? I won’t touch them.”

James allows that much, his jaw clenching and unclenching visibly until John tugs the gown closed again.

“Were they treated with anything? Or at least cleaned? Did any of them get infected?”

“I don’t know if they were infected but some of them took longer to heal and hurt a lot more. I had an antibiotic cream, but not for the first ones.”

John rubs the back of his neck. “They’ll fade,” he says softly. “The most superficial ones might disappear completely. But it’ll take time. A lot of time. There are creams that can help minimize the look of scars. I can ask Sarah to write a prescription if you want.”

“Yes please.”

“All right.” John tugs his gloves off and gives James a thin smile. “Anything else bothering you?” At James’ shake of head, he says, “I’ll go talk to her now. I’ll see you two in the waiting room.”

He walks out with the vials of blood, closing the door silently behind him.

“You can wait outside now if you want,” James says, and that ‘if you want’ sounds extraordinarily like a ‘please’.

“I’ll do that, yes,” Sherlock replies. “Take your time.”

Before slipping out of the room, Sherlock stops again. He has a feeling he should say something, but what? He remembers, vaguely, being very small and getting a painful shot in his arm, and crying only a little bit, and Mycroft saying—

“You’ve been very brave.”

James’ head snaps up; he’s obviously surprised. Obviously happy, too. Sherlock leaves. With the door closed, he takes in a deep, shaky breath.

He gets to the waiting room first. John joins him and Sherlock hands him his jacket.

“You knew,” John says, his voice rough.

“Not the extent of it, but I’d seen a few of them.”

“Would that be around the time you stopped smoking?”

When Sherlock inclines his head, John shakes his.

“A broken neck seems much too fast.”

“Believe me, if I had to do it again…”

James is coming toward them, shirt buttoned to the very top, tie knotted perfectly, so Sherlock stops rather than finish voicing that thought. He’s sure John feels the same way.


	8. Going Somewhere

They have a quiet evening in front of the telly. After the day they’ve had, quiet is just fine. Sherlock couldn’t say what is actually on; a movie, or maybe a documentary, he couldn’t care less. James and John watch whatever it is without a word, each claiming one end of the sofa. Sitting in his armchair, his feet up on the seat and his arms around his legs, Sherlock is lost in his thoughts, retracing the day and every misstep he made.

The last one is certainly the worst. He knew about the scars on James’ chest – or at least, he knew about some of them. Any medical professional seeing them was bound to have questions and suspicions. More importantly, he should have foreseen James’ reluctance to undress in front of anyone, let alone strangers. The scars probably are part of it, especially considering his question about whether they’ll fade, but there’s of course more to it. Sherlock can’t believe he didn’t anticipate that. 

His only excuse is that he was concerned about James’ physical health, and let that worry overshadow everything else, including his mental peace. It only proves yet again that being a father – and particularly a father to this one extraordinary child – requires his mind to be at its best. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been at his best since coming back to London.

Mycroft’s voice echoes inside his mind. Caring is not an advantage, it says. Sherlock already knew it to be true for his work. How ironic that caring about James makes him prone to mistakes concerning his well-being. 

“All right, now you’re scaring me.”

Of the quiet words or the hand resting on his knee, Sherlock isn’t sure which pulls him out of his thoughts. He blinks, only now realizing that the television is off, water is running in the bathroom, and John is standing right in front of his chair, looking down at Sherlock with a grim expression.

“Scaring you?” he asks, confused.

John’s features soften a little. “I guess I’m not used to you ignoring me anymore. I was asking if you’re all right. You haven’t moved for hours.” He squeezes Sherlock’s knee once before letting go.

Of their own accord, Sherlock’s eyes track John’s hand as it retreats. Always such fleeting touches… but the promise is there of more.

“I just had a lot to think about.”

Sitting across from Sherlock in his armchair, John stretches out his legs, one foot resting on top of the other.

“Anything you want to share?” he asks.

There’s no reason for Sherlock to hide, so he drops his feet to the floor. They rest on either side of John’s, not touching but very, very close.

“What happened at the surgery,” he says quietly, not much louder than a whisper, wary of James’ sharp ears. “I should have anticipated it. I wasn’t thinking. I can’t let something like that happen again.”

John’s expression as he props his head against his closed fist seems caught between exasperation and resignation.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, nudging Sherlock’s right foot with his left. “You can’t read his mind and predict every small and not so small thing that might upset him.”

“It’s hardly reading his mind,” Sherlock retorts. “Just a matter of logic.”

“And,” John continues, unabated, “you can’t protect him from every single one of those things either. Actually…”

He pauses then, his brow furrowing, his lips twisting in displeasure. Sherlock has seen that look before; it used to accompany the word ‘Ella’. 

“I hate to say this,” he says with a sigh, “but maybe what happened is for the best. No, wait,” he adds quickly, pressing his foot harder against Sherlock’s when Sherlock sits up, ready to protest. “He was upset, I’m not denying that. And I have this feeling you’re going to be playing the violin for him for half the night. But at the same time… That was a pretty big display of trust he gave us today. And he talked about those scars. Sometimes just talking about something, acknowledging that the wound is there and that it hurts just to look at it… it’s progress. Small steps, but still progress.”

Part of Sherlock wants to object that surely James’ mind doesn’t work like that, it’s too easy, too simplistic. The words die on his tongue.

Does he truly know James’ mind? Too often, his reactions surprise Sherlock – if nothing else, today proved that. 

Besides, John sounds like he speaks from experience. He, too, has scars, some visible, some not. He’s talking about his own mind. Just because it’s different from Sherlock’s doesn’t make it invalid. Sherlock would rather delete what he can and shove the rest to the furthest, darkest corners of his mind, but for all that he often recognizes himself in James, they are just as different as they are similar.

“Small steps,” he repeats. His foot slides hesitantly against John’s. “I suppose those can be good. As long as they’re actually going somewhere.”

A thin smile flickers on John’s lips. “Just give it time,” he says. “No rush, remember?”

When he stands and leans down to kiss Sherlock goodnight, it’s more than the usual chaste press of lips against lips. He cups the back of Sherlock’s neck. His mouth parts against Sherlock’s and his tongue requests entrance. Sherlock blinks twice, his fingers tightening on the armrests of his chair as he leans forward, welcoming John in for what turns out to be just long enough a kiss for him to taste the memory of tea on John’s tongue.

Although he ends the kiss, John doesn’t pull back and remains as he is, one hand propped against the back of Sherlock’s armchair, the other still at the back of his neck, their foreheads brushing together.

“Speaking of small steps,” he murmurs, “you can touch me, you know. I mean. You know. Like you used to do.”

Sherlock swallows hard, unable to look away from John’s eyes. He used to touch John, yes, back before he had to go away. A hand on his back, his shoulder, his arm to guide him, fingers brushing against hand or wrist whenever he asked John to hand him something. Small touches, tactile glances that meant nothing – or at least, nothing Sherlock was ready to admit to, even to himself. He’s been very careful since coming back to keep his hands to himself; even more careful since that day at Bart’s and his promise not to rush things.

“That is… good to know,” he breathes, then tilts his head again for another brief but sweet kiss.

When John straightens up, his fingers lingering against Sherlock’s neck just a little longer, his eyes are full of stars. Sherlock knows it’s a silly thought, and yet, he could swear he sees them, clearly enough that he could count them, name them, create new constellations for them.

“Good night,” John says, and Sherlock echoes the words.

It’s only when he turns away that they both notice James standing by the kitchen doors. He shifts a little, his gaze dropping to the floor as though he’s embarrassed he walked in on them kissing. 

John only hesitates for a second before he steps away, passing James with a light, “Good night, James.”

“G’night,” James mumbles back.

He comes into the sitting room, his hair still wet from his shower, his ears pink, his eyes still downcast. The question is in every line of his body, in the way he strokes his thumbnail, starts to raise his hand toward his mouth before dropping it again, the gesture aborted mid-movement.

“Get your blanket,” Sherlock replies, and even though James still doesn’t say a word, Sherlock can all but hear his relief.

While James goes upstairs to get his things, Sherlock steps into the bathroom, cleans up for the night and changes into his pajamas. He’s tugging his dressing gown closed as he returns to the sitting room. James is already bundled up on the sofa. Sherlock’s violin case waits on John’s armchair, already open, the rosin on the table next to it.

“Anything you’d like to hear tonight?” Sherlock asks as he sits down in his armchair and prepares the violin with practiced movements.

More often than not, the question is answered with a quiet, “Whatever you feel like playing.” Not tonight.

“Bach,” James says softly. “Anything from Bach. Please?”

Sherlock doesn’t turn to Bach very often anymore. It reminds him too much of Moriarty. As his bow slides over the first notes of Sonata Number One, he can’t help but wonder if they remind James of him, too. He chases the thought away and plays with his eyes closed. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer to that question anyway.

*

The next day starts with a cold case at Scotland Yard that Lestrade has been nagging Sherlock about for weeks. Nothing very interesting about it, which was why Sherlock was reluctant to bother, but as a distraction, it works well enough. Lestrade’s office is a bit tight for all of them so they commandeer a conference room. The photos of the crime scene – minus the victim’s – are pinned to the board on the wall, those of the suspects along with transcripts of their interrogation are on the opposite wall while the evidence is spread out on the table. 

“Cluedo,” John calls it. “Except for this one you can’t actually cheat.”

He’s very unfair. It was just the one time, and it was a complete accident that Sherlock got a glimpse of John’s cards.

Shortly before noon, Lestrade goes out to make an arrest, but not before offering them a new case to look at. By the time he comes back, that one is solved, too. Unfortunately, they might be the last cases for the year. Things always get abysmally quiet before Christmas. People with a murder motive fall into the trap of holidays cheer and think whatever it is might get better with presents and Christmas pudding. That lull, thankfully, should end by New Year, just in time for James to start school.

It’ll be odd to go on cases without him, but John will be there, and that will feel like old times. Or at least, that’s what Sherlock tells himself while they have lunch. It’s a small restaurant and the table is cramped, but that doesn’t have much to do with the way his knee presses against John’s the entire time.

Both at the restaurant and on the way home, John regales James with tidbits that didn’t make it into his blog – which apparently James found and started reading from the start. If he noticed his father’s footprints throughout, he doesn’t say, but he’s laughing hard enough to have trouble breathing when he leads the way up to the flat.

“He didn’t!”

“I swear he did.” John is grinning, on the edge of laughter himself when he glances at Sherlock as they all shrug out of their coats. “Big, round crystal thing. It’s in the flat somewhere.”

Sherlock can’t quite suppress a smile as James dissolves into fits of giggles.

“He stole… an ashtray… from the Queen?”

His giggling stops abruptly when he walks into the sitting room. Following him and John, Sherlock realizes quickly enough why he stopped laughing.

“Yes, he did,” Mycroft says from his seat in Sherlock’s chair. He doesn’t look up from the folder open on his lap. “And I had to offer her Majesty my most sincere apologies. She was not amused.”

He glances up, then, and while his expression is still severe, there’s a gleam in his eyes that causes James to burst out laughing again. John contains himself, but his body shakes with repressed laughter. Only Sherlock finds no humor in the turn of phrase.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, striding forward.

Mycroft closes the folder on his lap and hands it out to Sherlock. “Delivering good news, amongst other things. James performed quite well on his evaluation yesterday. Congratulations.”

The last word is offered to James with an actual smile. Coming closer, James peers at the folder before taking a seat.

“How did you get the results?” he asks Mycroft, who makes a vague gesture.

“I just asked, that’s all. I particularly enjoyed your essay. Very clever.”

Sherlock huffs as he scans the few pages summarizing James’ results; trust Mycroft to make it clear he can recognize a skip code on sight. 

“Who did you ask exactly?” John says, sitting on the sofa and tugging at Sherlock’s sleeve until he sits as well so John can have a look at the folder too.

“Oh, just the Headmaster,” Mycroft says with an affected shrug before addressing James again. “And your grand-mother will be quite happy to hear about your results on the French part of the test. I suggested they consider placing you two classes ahead of your grade. I won’t mention it so you can tell her yourself at Christmas.”

“Two classes?” James repeats, and there’s no mistaking the disappointment in his voice. “Do I have to?”

“No,” Sherlock says at the same instant, his head snapping up. “We are not spending Christmas there.”

Before Mycroft can answer either of them, John asks in an angry voice, “Does the word privacy mean anything to you?”

Sherlock glances at the sheet of paper in John’s hand, the last one from the folder. Results as well, but they don’t have anything to do with school.

“Where did you get that?” Sherlock hisses.

Another vague gesture. Mycroft ‘asked’, no doubt. 

“I just thought you’d rather have those results sooner than later.” His mouth twists into something almost mocking and he raises an eyebrow at John and Sherlock as he asks, “I can arrange for yours to be delivered faster, too. End of the day rather than the end of the week. Shall I?”

He already has his phone in hand. Sherlock would happily shove the device down his throat. So much for holidays cheer.

“We’ll wait, thanks,” John says dryly, holding Mycroft’s gaze before turning to James. “Your uncle was _kind enough_ to expedite your blood tests. They’re all negative.”

“Negative? That’s… good, right?” James asks hesitantly.

“Very good,” John says, his voice gentle now. “You’re fine.”

He really is, Sherlock realizes as he looks at the summary of the many tests that were performed on those four small vials. It’s more than STD testing – more than what it was supposed to be. It’s as if the lab tried to find out just how many different tests they could perform with just those few ounces of blood. Sherlock doesn’t recognize all of them, but the results are all within the norm or negative.

Sherlock looks ups and meets Mycroft’s eyes. He’s not going to say thank you – the last thing Mycroft needs is encouragement – but he inclines his head ever so slightly, and Mycroft returns the gesture before standing.

“I need to get back to work,” he says, buttoning his jacket with one hand while he takes hold of his umbrella with the other. “I’ll see you at Mummy’s. She expects us there on the nineteenth and she insists you stay at least until James’ birthday. Oh, and you’re invited, John, of course.”

“You can tell her we have other plans,” Sherlock says, standing as well.

“I will tell her no such thing, brother dear. If you want to disappoint her, talk to her yourself.”

He holds Sherlock’s eyes for a second longer, and there’s something there, a crack in Mycroft’s façade and pain seeping through. Sherlock’s heart tightens a little and he forgets to argue any further as Mycroft leaves.

Is she getting worse? How much worse? How fast? Would Mycroft say if Sherlock asked? Does Sherlock even want to know?

“Sherlock?” From James’ tone, he has said Sherlock’s name at least twice already. Sherlock looks at him and James asks, “What other plans do we have for Christmas? Why can’t we go see her?”

Looking for – he’s not too sure what; an excuse, probably – Sherlock turns to John, who shakes his head with a slight smile.

“I don’t mind. I’ve always wanted to see what kind of lady could keep in check both you and Mycroft.”

It seems as though Sherlock is outnumbered.

Later that evening, he texts Mycroft.

_23rd. Not a day sooner.  
SH_

_I’ll let her know.  
MH_

_And tell that Headmaster not to place James ahead of his grade.  
SH_

_Why not? He’s going to be bored out of his mind._

_Unlikely.  
SH_

_Elaborate?_

_He appears to have already made friends._

_Friends?  
You’re a terrible influence on that child._

_Thank you.  
SH_

_You’re welcome.  
I’ll tell Mummy. She’ll be pleased._

Sherlock has a feeling he’ll be telling her about more than James’ friends. Somehow, he can’t manage to care all that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started posting [Echoes of Love and Absence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1733840), which is made up of scenes set during Crazy For Love and (eventually) this fic but from the point of view of John or James for a change.


	9. Her Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks for the comments along the way. They are, as always, much appreciated.

Standing just outside the kitchen, Sherlock observes James, trying to divine his state of mind. No tie, today; lately, he’s been going without one most days. It’s usually a good sign when he doesn’t wear one. He seems a little too focused on spreading jam over a piece of toast, but that’s not new, nor is it a clue in itself. It should be safe for Sherlock to tell him, he thinks, and clears his throat lightly. Both John and James look at him, though it is to the latter that Sherlock addresses his words.

“Upon further reflection, I’d rather you come with us today.”

Oddly enough, John’s lips curve into a badly repressed smile and he returns his attention to his own breakfast; it isn’t the reaction Sherlock expected from him. He thought John would appreciate the opportunity for them to spend some time alone, something that is all too rare. Instead, he seems… amused. Or maybe relieved. Is that why his shoulders are loosening? Sherlock can’t fathom why he’d be amused or relieved.

James’ frown, on the other hand, is exactly what Sherlock imagined.

“But you said I could!”

“I know I did, but—”

“And Mycroft will be here in just a moment!”

“He’ll understand, I just—”

James isn’t listening, and taking instead John to witness.

“John! He said I could go, didn’t he?”

Still trying – and failing – not to smile, John shakes his head, pushing away from the table.

“Oh, no, I’m not stepping into that one. It’s between the two of you. Leave me out of it.”

If James is disappointed by this lack of support, he doesn’t show it, and turns that deepening frown back to Sherlock, his breakfast forgotten in front of him.

“You said I could,” he protests again. “When else am I supposed to shop for Christmas presents?”

“I will take you.”

James doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “I can’t buy you a present if you’re there. That’s the whole _point_.”

“I don’t need a present.”

Despite his claim that he’d stay out of it, John makes a quiet sound that might be a stifled chuckle. 

“Not taking sides here,” he says, amusement shining in his eyes as he looks at Sherlock, “but you’ve made that argument before and you were soundly defeated. You might want to try another one. Like the reason why you changed your mind, for example.”

His ‘not taking sides’ stance looks rather compromised from where Sherlock stands. He crosses his arms, annoyed, already sensing that he might lose this argument like he lost the ‘no need for presents’ one. 

“You don’t even _like_ Mycroft,” he tells James. “Why would you even want to spend time with him?”

James shrugs. “He’s not as bad as I used to think. And you’re the one who said you’d agree if Mycroft did.”

Sherlock grimaces at that. He did say this, yes. When James expressed a desire to go shopping without him or John and wouldn’t be deterred, Sherlock tried to make sure it wouldn’t happen by setting a condition he was sure wouldn’t be fulfilled. Mycroft loathes to shop; either he sends his minions to get what he needs, or he has tailors, shoemakers or other craftsmen come to him. The odds that he would agree to James’ request were laughably small.

And yet, he did. Damn him.

“He’ll probably get called away,” Sherlock tries as a last resort. “Some international crisis or something. You don’t want him to leave you with one of his people. Terrible lot, the whole of them.”

“He said he cleared his schedule until after lunch.”

“But…”

Before Sherlock can find a better argument, James’ phone beeps. He gives a look to the text message before raising a questioning eyebrow at Sherlock. 

“He’s there,” he says calmly. “May I go or not?”

He’s not pleading or arguing, merely asking in his most polite voice – and that itself rings like a warning to Sherlock. Coming back on what he agreed might be a worse decision than leaving James in Mycroft’s care for a few hour.

Defeated – again – Sherlock draws out his wallet and retrieves his bank card, holding it out to James, who shakes his head, grinning at the implicit answer.

“I’m not buying you a present with your own card!” he says, standing from the table. “I’ll work something out with Mycroft.”

Sherlock might have been wrong about Mycroft agreeing to go shopping, but he’s sure about this: there is no way Mycroft will accept money from an account funded by Moriarty’s activities.

“Just take it,” he insists, and James does before going into the hallway to get his coat and scarf. He comes back soon enough to finish his tea, grab his piece of toast, and off he is again, calling behind him, “Later!”

Sherlock crosses the sitting room to get to the window in time to watch James climb into a black car. As the car drives away, a text message comes in on his phone.

_Never imagined you as the overprotective father type.  
Do you require regular updates on our whereabouts or do you intend to follow us?  
MH_

_Never imagined YOU as a dotting uncle._

After a second of hesitation and despite the smug look he can imagine Mycroft taking when he reads this, he adds,

_Piss off  
SH_

Childish, certainly, but right now he doesn’t care.

“Why did you change your mind?” John asks, coming into the room.

Sherlock shrugs as he pockets the phone. 

“James can be rather picky about who keeps an eye on him. I shouldn’t have suggested Mycroft.”

John’s brow furrows in incomprehension. “But James was okay with it.”

Surprisingly so; something else Sherlock had not counted on. 

“Mycroft barely knows a thing about him. He might upset him.”

“Everyone might do that. _We_ ’ve done it. We’ll probably do it again, however hard we try not to. You can’t wrap him in a little bubble and stop the world from getting at him.”

“I know that.” 

It’s all Sherlock can do not to pout, but John grins as though he had. That grin, however, doesn’t last, and as it falters John looks away and asks, “So… that’s the only reason why you didn’t want him to go?”

Sherlock blinks and takes in the tension in John’s shoulders, and at the corners of his mouth. The circles under his eyes are darker than usual; bad night. He always sleeps poorly the nights before he goes back to his house, and the nights after. Sherlock has been trying to figure out how to help, and that’s why he offered to accompany John today.

“You think I don’t want to come,” he says, almost proud when his voice doesn’t betray the sting of that realization. “You think I changed my mind about that, too. You think I was trying to use James as an excuse not to accompany you.”

He’d like nothing more than for John to tell him he’s wrong. But when John does say that, rubbing the back of his own neck, he sounds like he’s just telling Sherlock what he wants to hear.

“We should go,” he adds. “They’ll be there at nine.”

In the cab, Sherlock keeps his hand on the seat in between them, close to John, but John never notices, let alone takes that offered hand. When they get to the house that’s not his anymore, his left hand is closed in a tight, shaky fist when he goes to open the door. He leads the way in without a word.

Sherlock follows, now wondering if he should have come at all. But isn’t this what partners do? Support each other in difficult situations? Sherlock want to do this right – but what _is_ right? 

John has been here, alone, three times in the past weeks. It shows. Some of the artwork that was on the walls is gone, as are a few pieces of furniture. John sent word to Mary’s family and her closest friends that they could come and claim mementos if they wanted. Few did.

Moving boxes line the hallway, some of them already closed and labeled, others open and only half full.

“What would you like me to do?” Sherlock asks after shrugging out of his coat.

A few steps ahead of him, John pauses, though he doesn’t look back. “How about… pack up the kitchen, please? There’s already a box and newspaper in there.”

It’s dull work, and wrapping glasses and plates for safe transport wasn’t what Sherlock expected, but that’s what John asked so it has to be helpful in some way.

Personally, Sherlock would be more inclined to smashing every last one of these plates.

At nine, the landlord comes in with the couple who will be moving in soon. Sherlock stays out of the way as they tour through the house and look at the furniture to see if there’s anything they’d like to take off John’s hands; the rest is scheduled to be picked up by a charity tomorrow.

As they walk by the kitchen on their way out, Sherlock gets a glimpse of them. Young couple, together three or four years, first time living together, excited about this ‘big step’ although the woman – blonde hair in a messy bun – can’t wait for the next step and the ring that will come with it.

From the kitchen, Sherlock hears John saying goodbye and close the door on them. He waits by the kitchen entrance, but John walks by him without noticing him and walks on to the staircase, his steps heavy as he goes upstairs.

Sherlock wraps two more stupid plates before giving up on that and following John upstairs. He finds him in the guest bedroom, facing two boxes set on the bare mattress.

“Done in the kitchen?” he asks without looking back. His voice sounds rough.

“No. I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” John lies. “Almost done in here.”

When Sherlock comes in, John steps over to the half-empty closet, keeping his back to him.

“We should be done by noon, don’t you think? We could go to Angelo’s. Or somewhere. Do you think James will be done shopping? We could text him and—”

He startles when Sherlock walks to him and rests a hand on his arm, twisting his body out of Sherlock’s touch.

“You’re upset,” Sherlock says quietly. “Let me…”

Sherlock isn’t sure what he means to say or do, or what would even help, but it doesn’t matter because John shakes his head. He’s still not looking at Sherlock. He takes in a shaky breath before saying brokenly, “Not here. I can’t… Not here, okay?”

Another, deeper inhale. Sherlock can’t breathe, but he still finds his voice.

“I thought… You were fine. Better. Weren’t you?”

Isn’t he? Visiting the house affects him, certainly, but the rest of the time he looks happy enough… or is that only a mask? Is he merely pretending to be happy? John isn’t that good of a liar, so he must have been happy at least sometimes. Sherlock has been missing a lot of things since he came back, but he couldn’t miss the signs so completely… could he?

“Fine?” John scoffs, turning angry eyes at him. “What does ‘fine’ mean? I’m grieving, Sherlock. Is that news to you? My wife is dead. She’s dead and I loved her and I love you and I live with you and I brought you in her home. Baker Street is fine. Baker Street is ours. But here… here is hers. It was a bad idea to bring you here.”

It all comes out in a rush of words, but that last part is a whisper. Sherlock understands suddenly that hint of relief he read in John that morning without understanding it.

He thought Sherlock didn’t want to come.

He was _relieved_ Sherlock didn’t want to come.

He never wanted Sherlock here.

“Right,” Sherlock says. “My apologies for forcing myself where I’m not wanted. It won’t happen again.”

He turns on his heel and leaves the room. 

Leaves the house.

Leaves whatever hopes he had of being _supportive_ and _helpful_. Every time he tries to help, it backfires and makes things worse. John was fine – wasn’t he? – and now he’s not. Years ago, Sherlock helped him with his limp, but since then it seems everything Sherlock has done has only hurt John. What is even the point?

The question runs through his mind as he walks through London, his coat collar up against the cold December wind, not quite knowing how long he’s walking or where he’s going until he gets there.

He doesn’t like graveyards. He never did. But there he is, standing at Mary’s grave the same way John stood at Sherlock’s, ages ago.

He doesn’t know why he’s here. It’s not as though he has anything to tell her; not as though he has any delusions she might be alive and able to tell him what it was she did to help John when he was grieving. 

As it turns out, he does have a reason, and that reason becomes clear when John’s voice rises behind him.

“What are you doing here?”

He watches John come forward and lay flowers by the headstone.

“Waiting for you,” Sherlock says. “You always come here after you go to the house.”

John turns a humorless smile toward him. His eyes are rimmed in red. They only meet Sherlock’s for a few seconds before turning to the grave in front of them.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he says quietly. “I don’t know why I’m surprised about any of it.”

“Any of what?” Sherlock asks.

“You knowing where I’d come. Or Mary… Mary knowing how you felt when I didn’t even see it.”

His shoulders shake, and Sherlock can’t tell if he’s laughing silently, or… something else

“I was packing her music things and I saw the sheet music you gave her. She’d written on it.”

“Your name,” Sherlock says, whispering.

“My name,” John repeats. “You gave her a music piece you wrote about me, and she realized what it was. And probably what it meant. And she still was okay with me running around town with you.”

Technically, Sherlock wrote that piece about them, but he’s hardly going to argue the point now, when John’s hand is wrapping around his.

“Home?” John asks after another long moment.

“Home.” 

The word has never sounded so beautiful, like a sonata all in itself.


	10. No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was writing this until 3am. Hopefully it makes sense.

With the prospect of spending Christmas in Sussex hanging over him like that sword in a myth he’s mostly deleted, Sherlock has no interest in hosting a Christmas party in 221B.

And yet, that’s what he hears himself agree to one dreary afternoon.

He and James spent the morning at Bart’s while John was running errands – that’s what he’s calling it when he sees his therapist, something he’s been doing with some regularity since the funeral. Sherlock knows it, and John knows Sherlock knows it, so the point of the euphemism is rather lost on Sherlock, just like the point of the entire activity.

Caught in a couple of experiments, Sherlock failed to pay much attention to the conversation at Bart’s, and especially to Molly mentioning the party he and John hosted for Christmas a few years back. It’s the memory of that party that James summons that afternoon, taking a break from the book he’s reading to ask, “Can we have a Christmas party before we go visit your mum?”

The clickety-click of John’s fingers on his computer keyboard slows down, then comes to a stop. Sherlock opens his eyes. He was thinking, lying on the sofa – not dozing; of course he’s not taking a nap in the middle of the day, not even if it’s much easier to sleep with quiet, domestic sounds around him than full silence. He has to sit up to see James, which gives him a second or two to think about his answer.

“We’re leaving in two days,” he points out. “It’s too late for anything like that.”

“Maybe not,” James says. “I could call Detective Inspector Lestrade and ask if they have plans to tomorrow. I already know Molly doesn’t. They’re the ones you invited before, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but—”

“It doesn’t have to be a big party at all. I haven’t done anything special for Christmas in years.”

It’s a fact and he states it as such, not like a plea for pity or anything so manipulative. But somehow Sherlock’s objections seem to vanish on his tongue and before he knows it he has agreed and James is rushing up to his room, where he left his phone. 

“You can say no to him, you know,” John says from the desk, the clicking on the keyboard starting again, although more slowly than usual.

“Of course I’m able to say no,” Sherlock mumbles, lying back down.

“But you don’t. Or when he pushes back, you change your mind and say yes. You do that a lot, I’ve noticed. Which is why I’m saying, you can say no to him. It’s not going to… break him. Or damage him. It might even be good for you to stick to your decisions. If you don’t, he’ll keep pushing and pushing until there’s no line anymore.”

An awful thought comes to Sherlock and he sits up again, looking at John and stifling a grimace at how slow he was. It’s John’s flat too and it didn’t even occur to Sherlock that he might not be in the right state of mind for a party.

“You don’t want a Christmas party,” he says. “I’m sorry. I should have realized. I’ll tell him—”

“Sherlock, that’s not what I’m saying.”

Closing his laptop, John pushes away from the desk and comes closer, sitting in front of Sherlock on the coffee table. His eyes are clear; no anger or lies. But the lines of his face speak of concern.

“I don’t mind seeing our friends,” he says, leaning a little toward Sherlock. “I even look forward to it. Don’t use me as an excuse to say no to James. You didn’t want that party. It was obvious. But you still said yes. That’s all I’m saying.”

He’s… not wrong. Is he also correct in stating that Sherlock has been doing this a lot? A quick look back at the past few weeks is all Sherlock needs to know he is. But it’s not as though James makes extravagant or unreasonable demands. Like that party; just because Sherlock is exhausted in advance at the thought of going to Sussex was not a valid excuse to say no. And as it turns out, it’s not just James who wanted this, but John, too. Why refuse it to them?

“Listen, I’m sorry,” John says with a quiet sigh, pulling back and standing. “I’ve got no right to try to tell you how to be a parent.”

Sherlock blinks, dragging himself out of his thoughts. John seems to have taken his silence as reproach, when it couldn’t be further from the truth. He reaches for John’s hand, tugging lightly, and John sits down again.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t know what I’m doing. Your advice is always welcome.”

With a wry smile, John shakes his head.

“And _I’ve_ told _you_ , you’re doing just fine. He trusts you, Sherlock. He wouldn’t push and test your limits if he didn’t trust you. Do you realize how miraculous it is for this particular child to trust anyone at all?”

He finishes with a light squeeze to Sherlock’s fingers and his smile softens a little. When he licks his lips, Sherlock starts to lean forward – only to jerk back again when running steps down the staircase announce James’ impending return.

“Molly said she’ll come,” he says as he enters the room. “And Detective Inspector Lestrade, too. Who else are we inviting? Mycroft?”

That, Sherlock has no trouble objecting to.

“No. He invites himself often enough. We are not encouraging him.”

James shrugs. He seems to be very careful to look anywhere but at Sherlock’s and John’s clasped hands.

“Okay. He’ll be at your mum’s anyway. I can give him his present then. So, who else?”

Mycroft’s present was another instance in which Sherlock’s initial refusal turned to a grudging yes, but James had a point; after Mycroft spent hours shopping with James, not getting him a present would have been rude. Why Sherlock would care about being rude to Mycroft is a question better left alone.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John says, answering James’ question. “And you’re not inviting her by phone. Go down and talk to her.”

James grimaces at that. “Do I have to?” he mumbles, his eyes darting briefly to Sherlock.

“Well, she’ll be hurt if we don’t invite her,” John says, and he sounds a little surprised. “Why do you dislike her? You barely ever talk to her even though she bakes cakes or biscuits for you every other day.”

“I don’t dislike her,” James says, clearly uneasy.

“But you don’t like her either,” John says gently, questioningly.

Sherlock briefly tightens his fingers over John, drawing his attention away from James before he gets even more uncomfortable.

“She reminds James of someone he’d rather not think about,” he says, and hopes John will keep his questions for when they’re alone.

John frowns briefly, then nods. “I see.” He turns back to James and says, as gently as before, “Maybe it’d help if you made good memories with her. It might push back the memories of whoever she reminds you of.”

What John is doing, Sherlock realizes, is telling James ‘No, we can’t leave out Mrs. Hudson even if it’d make you more comfortable.’ He’s not questioning James’ past or his reasons, nor is he dismissing them, but he’s not yielding either. He makes it look easy, too. And it works.

“You think so?” James asks, a little wary.

John smiles at him. “Don’t you think it’s worth a try?”

“I guess.” After a big sigh, James concedes. “I’ll go ask her.”

He goes as far as stepping out of the flat before he changes his mind and comes back in. “Oh! Can we invite Sergeant Donovan too?”

Sherlock does a double take. “Why would we do _that_?”

James raises an eyebrow at him as though Sherlock is being unreasonable. “Because she’s nice and looks after me when I’m not allowed on a crime scene?”

Like John said and demonstrated, it’s possible to say no without distressing James. Quite possible, and quite easy.

“Invite her if you want,” Sherlock says nonetheless, swallowing back a sigh.

His phone already out of his pocket, James leaves to go to Mrs. Hudson’s. As soon as he has disappeared, John chuckles quietly.

“I can’t believe you just agreed to have Donovan in your flat. Voluntarily. Remember what I just said about saying no?”

Sherlock shrugs like it’s nothing important, although he can’t quite believe it himself.

“She’s been a lot less annoying since I came back,” he says, and it’s not really a lie. “And James has a point that she’s been kind to him. Also she’ll decline.”

“You can’t know that,” John says, grinning, as he returns to his laptop.

“I do know that.”

Or at least, he hopes very strongly he’s right. He lies down again, closing his eyes and listening to the quiet sounds that mean John is close. He’s already half asleep when James comes back and says, “Sergeant Donovan can’t come but Mrs. Hudson said she’ll make dessert. Also she said she hopes Sherlock plays carols again. Do you really play carols on the violin?”

“If I really have to,” Sherlock mutters sleepily.

“Can you teach me?”

With a stifled groan, he sits up. Today is not the day he’ll say no to a simple request.

As it turns out, that day comes soon enough.

The next evening, Molly arrives first, dressed much more modestly than she was a few years ago and carrying a bag of presents. Sherlock says nothing at all about the blue bow wrapped around what’s obviously a book. She compliments the decorations as she sits – a few strands of Christmas lights James fished out from somewhere – and James, sitting at the other end of the sofa, beams at her more brightly than the lights.

Mrs. Hudson comes up with Lestrade, she carrying a platter of treats and he a bottle of wine. Amidst greetings and small talk, John passes the platter around while Sherlock pours wine for all the adults. James follows him back to the kitchen and, watching him pour fruit juice, asks, “Can’t I have some wine?”

“No. You’re too young to have alcohol.”

Sherlock is almost proud of himself for this simple sentence. And quite annoyed with himself for being proud at something so silly. Honestly, the lack of sleep is turning him into a complete idiot. Any more and he’ll be down to Anderson’s level.

“Not a full glass,” James persists, “just a sip.”

Sherlock hands him the glass of juice. It’s vaguely berry-scented, though it undoubtedly contains more sugar than actual fruit. A sip or two of wine probably wouldn’t be any worse for him than all that sugar. He has asked before when they were at Angelo’s, and that time John answered automatically before Sherlock could, and James let it go. Later, John gave Sherlock an entirely unnecessary apology for answering in his stead and explained Harry wasn’t much older than James is now when she first took a liking to alcohol.

“No,” Sherlock says again, trying to sound stern to prevent further arguments. It doesn’t work so well.

“Father always let me have a little bit with water. If you pour really slow, the wine stays on top of the water. It’s because the density…”

Sherlock has no idea what his face looks like at this second, but it’s enough to stop James in his tracks and have his eyes grow wide. He has no idea what he feels either, but it definitely sounds like anger when it comes out as sharp, icy words.

“Yes, of course, your _father_ was such a shining example that I should model my parenting decisions on his. How did I not see that before.”

Sherlock couldn’t say what’s worse – the way James flinches and turns very, very still, or the complete silence that crashes on the flat. He doesn’t need to look to the sitting room to know all eyes are on them.

So much for not hurting James by saying no to him.

Sherlock starts moving before he knows where he’s going. He’d like to leave the flat completely but after that god-awful day when he left Mary’s house after they argued, John made him promise not to run off like that again. With few choices open to him, Sherlock ends up in the bedroom – his bedroom, or is it John’s? He only comes in here to get dressed or, apparently, to escape company. Tonight hasn’t been anything like that first Christmas party he and John hosted, but this, at least, hasn’t changed. And like back then, John soon comes after him.

He closes the door behind him. Standing by the window with his hands fisted in his pockets, Sherlock can practically feel his concern from across the room.

“It’s a bit rude of you to abandon our guests,” John says, his tone of voice faintly teasing.

Their guests who are right now alone with a spooked James. What if they ask him questions, what if they make things even worse and—

He’s about to turn around when the first notes of violin rise, a little unsteady but quickly recognizable as one of the carols Sherlock taught James. 

Of course they’re not going to question him. _They_ are good people.

“Come on, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shudders when John rests a hand on his shoulder; he didn’t hear him cross the room.

“You were just startled,” John continues quietly. “You didn’t expect him to bring up Moriarty now. And judging from his expression, neither did he. I think it just slipped out. He wasn’t trying to say Moriarty was a better father than you are.”

“You don’t know that,” Sherlock says.

He hates that his voice sounds so brittle, like one more kick, one more blow would be all that’s needed for him to break. He sounded like this for a while in Serbia – and why on Earth is he thinking about that now? Why can’t he just delete the whole bloody thing?

“Yes, I do know that,” John says, pulling gently on his shoulder until Sherlock turns to him. “I’ve seen you with him. I’ve seen him with you. Trust me.”

His hand slides up to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck, anchoring him here and now. When he pulls ever so gently, Sherlock leans forward until their foreheads press together; until all he can see is John’s eyes, kind and strong all at once; until all he wants to do is kiss this man and forget they’re not alone in this flat. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy.

“Ready to go back?” John whispers.

Sherlock’s deep sigh is not an affectation. “If we must.”

Somehow, it’s not as difficult as Sherlock expected to return to the sitting room, not when John’s hand remains at the small of his back, leaving him only for a second to pick up both their wine glasses and hand one to Sherlock. The innocent touch quickly returns – innocent, and yet so revealing in front of their assembled friends. They all notice. There are no raised eyebrows or overt shows of disapproval, only raised glasses and small smiles.

They all listen to James finish playing _Silent Night_. After a bit of clapping that brings a thin almost-but-not-quite smile to his lips, James raises the bow again and tries his hand at _We wish you a merry Christmas_. He has a bit more trouble with that one, so Sherlock hands his glass to John, goes to pick up his violin, and plays alongside James, making sure his notes support James’ rather than drown them away. When they finish, James’ hand isn’t so unsteady anymore, and his smile not quite so thin.

*

Five hours later, the flat is silent, the guests long gone, but Sherlock is still standing, his violin at his neck and the bow lowered at his side. The sitting room is dark except for the fairy lights. They made John’s eyes sparkle when he kissed Sherlock goodnight. The warmth of that kiss is long gone, though, and Sherlock stands by the window, looking out into the street without really seeing, wishing he could play himself to sleep like he has so often done for John and James; like he’ll do tonight again, it seems.

Quiet footsteps warn him he’s not alone anymore. He had expected as much after his outburst. He raises his bow, but before he can draw a note from his violin, James’ voice rises, no louder than a whisper.

“Sherlock? I’m sorry.”

Sherlock lowers the bow again. He doesn’t need to ask what James means.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” James says a little more loudly. “I didn’t mean—”

“James, it’s fine,” Sherlock cuts in softly, turning around to face him. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

In the glow of the fairy lights, he barely sees James shaking his head.

“No, no, I’m the sorry one. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

“I don’t mind you talking about him.” Even as he says the words, Sherlock realizes they are true. There are certainly other topics more pleasant than this one, but if James can’t talk to him about Moriarty, whom can he talk to? “Although,” he adds after a second, trying to lighten his tone, “maybe not in front of company next time.”

James doesn’t reply, nor does he move, remaining standing by the sofa, his expression unreadable. Sherlock is about to ask if he’d like to hear some Bach or anything else when James says, back to a murmur, “I’ve been thinking about him a lot. About what you said. You know, at Bart’s.”

If there is a correct reply to this, Sherlock has no idea what it might be. He remains silent.

“Do you think…” James starts, and falters briefly before trying again. “Was he sad?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replies, very honestly. Six months ago, he’d have scoffed at the question. Today, he realizes there was a lot he didn’t know about Moriarty; a lot he’ll never know, or understand. He wishes he did understand, if only to know how to erase the frown now pulling at James’ brow.

“People don’t do what he did unless they’re sad,” James says, his voice shaking a little, like his bow hand was, earlier. “Don’t you think?”

There’s a pleading note in his words, and something tightens painfully in Sherlock’s chest.

“I don’t know, James,” he says very quietly.

It’s still not enough, and James goes on.

“But… was he sad?” he asks again. “On the roof, did he… look sad?”

Sherlock takes a small step toward him. “James…”

James shakes his head again as though to push away the feeble attempt at soothing him. “If he was sad, I should have known, shouldn’t I? I was the person who knew him best in the entire world.”

That, too, would have made Sherlock scoff a few months ago. He’d have claimed that title for himself. Arrogance.

“If he was sad,” he says on the edge of a whisper, “you’d have been the last person in the world he’d want to show it to.”

James’ frown deepens a little more. “How do you know?”

“I know because if I were sad, I wouldn’t want to show you.”

Or if his mind palace failed to obey him. Or if he questioned every decision he made until he couldn’t so much as compose two lines of music before having to start over. Or if he couldn’t sleep. Or if he had nightmares that mixed persisting memories and unreasonable fears.

“You were sad before,” James says, still frowning. “You showed me.”

“True.” Sherlock’s throat feels too tight to breathe, let alone speak; he does both anyway. “But I didn’t think of myself as your father then.”

For a handful of seconds, James is very still and very quiet, enough so that Sherlock wonders if he’s said the wrong thing again.

“And now…” James finally says, “you do?”

As relieved as he is, Sherlock can’t bear to say the words again.

“I believe that’s what I just said,” he offers instead.

Again, James remains immobile and silent for a moment. Eventually, he comes forward, slow steps that take him all the way to Sherlock. He hesitates for a second before sliding his arms around Sherlock and giving him a hug that Sherlock can’t quite return, not until he takes both bow and violin in one hand, and by then it’s too late, James is already pulling away.

He says goodnight on his way back to his room. Sherlock wouldn’t bet his life on it, but he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t only say “Good night.”

Maybe, just maybe, he said, “Good night, Dad.”


	11. Sussex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept trying to fix the disjointed feel this chapter has and then I wondered - why fix it? It reads that way because that's how Sherlock feels.
> 
> Or at least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Mycroft doesn’t just send a car.

He sends a limousine, complete with a small television, DVD player and selection of spy movies.

Sherlock hates the pompous git, and would gladly tell him so if he were there. He’s not, however. ‘Important matters’ will keep him in London until Christmas’ Eve, and he apparently won’t be able to stay past midday on Christmas. Sherlock assumes that’s his brother’s present to him. An excellent choice.

While John and James agree on a movie, Sherlock sets his violin case on the seat across from him, crosses his arms, leans back into the leather seat and closes his eyes. In the small enclosed space, every one of his nerve endings is aware of John being close even if they’re not touching, and that’s enough to quiet his mind. He dozes off before they even leave London – only to awaken in a jump when repeated gunshots fill the car.

It takes him a few seconds of heart-thundering alarm to realize it’s only the movie. No one is shooting at him. Not this time.

“Are you okay?” John asks, resting a hand on his arm. 

“Fine,” Sherlock mumbles. “Bump in the road. Startled me.”

John smiles faintly, but the lines at the corners of his eyes reveal he wasn’t fooled.

Worse; next to him, James wasn’t either.

Sherlock has no interest in the movie, but he forces himself to watch it, running an internal tally about every single ludicrous thing about it to keep himself awake. It helps somewhat that John’s hand never leaves him.

The timing of the driver is excellent; he turns into the alley that leads to the mansion just as the end credits roll up. Sherlock takes a deep breath and begins to steel himself. Of all the places he could be right now, this may not be the worst one considering his state of mind, but it’s easily in the top five. 

James is the first one out of the car, and already waiting by the trunk while John, still sitting near Sherlock, asks quietly, “So. Your mother. What are we telling her about us?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing. Unless you want to. I suspect Mycroft already told her, but whether he did or not she’s unlikely to bring it up.”

“Because she disapproves?”

“Because discussions about matters of sentiment have no place in this house.”

The look John gives him then is entirely too understanding. He slips a hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck and leans closer to brush his lips against Sherlock’s. Before Sherlock can shake off his surprise and even think of reciprocating, John is slipping away and getting out of the car.

The driver has pulled their belongings from the trunk and James is already halfway to the door, dragging his new carry-on suitcase after him. It’s green, and other than the color it’s identical to the suitcases John and Sherlock pick up. John’s is blue, Sherlock’s black. Both John and James protested they had perfectly suitable luggage; Sherlock ignored them both. Neither needed to bring here the memories that their suitcases carry. Bad enough that Sherlock’s are waiting for him.

By the time John and Sherlock reach the front door, the new maid has answered James’ knocking and opened the door. There’s no choice but to follow James in.

“If you’ll leave your luggage here,” the young woman says as she takes their coats, “I’ll take it all to your rooms. Mrs. Holmes is waiting for you in the sitting room.”

Swallowing a sigh, Sherlock sets his violin case on top of his suitcase and tugs his jacket in place. James doesn’t wait and leads the way, and they can hear him say hello to ‘grand-mere’ in French before they get there. John catches Sherlock’s gaze with a questioning look. Sherlock tries to give him a reassuring smile, but he’s not sure it doesn’t end up looking like a grimace.

As they enter the sitting room, his mother is on the sofa, a closed book in her lap, James sitting at her side. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, her make-up discreet but flawless; so far, the maid seems to be a vast improvement over her predecessor.

“Mummy,” Sherlock says as he goes to her and leans down to kiss her cheek. “I’d like to introduce my friend, Doctor John Watson. John, this is my mother, Louise Holmes.”

She raises a hand, as dignified as a monarch holding court, and John shakes it delicately.

“Pleased to finally meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”

Rather than letting go of his hand, she wraps the second one around it too, and holds on. Her gaze is unwavering as she takes John in, certainly noticing every last detail – including the gold band on his right hand.

“The pleasure is mine, Dr. Watson. I’ve heard a lot about you from Mycroft. Not so much from Sherlock. You know how stubborn he can be, I’m sure.”

John offers her a polite smile. “I do, yes. Mycroft gave me the impression that was a family trait.”

Her eyes widen for a second, and then she does something Sherlock hasn’t seen her do since he was a child.

She laughs aloud.

“Oh, you have no idea how right you are about that, John. May I call you John?”

“Please do.”

“Thank you. And you may call me Louise.”

She finally releases John’s hand and starts to push herself to her feet, using the sofa for support. Sherlock clenches his hands at his sides. He’d offer his help, but he knows it’s not wanted and wouldn’t be appreciated.

“Shall we pass into the dining room? Lunch is ready.”

She takes John’s arm, quite to Sherlock’s surprise – and John’s too, it seems, though he soon hides it, answering her question about whether he likes lobster soup as she guides him toward the dining room. Sherlock stands still for a second, watching them go until James, at his side, says his name quietly.

“Are you okay?” he asks, looking up at Sherlock with eyes that seem to see entirely too much.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock assures him with his best shamming smile. He’s been saying that so often, lately, that the words sound hollow to his own ears.

James grimaces. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says, looking a little cross, and hurries up after John and Mummy. 

Following after them, Sherlock can’t help but think that maybe he’s trapped in another strange dream.

Lunch is as quiet as ever, at least until dessert, at which point Mummy asks James to remind her which school he has chosen to attend, then inquires about how his entry exams went. The pride in his voice, Sherlock expected. The approval in hers is as startling now as it was the first time she met James. She’s intrinsically the same person Sherlock has known his entire life, but at the same time, she’s different enough that he has to wonder what it would have been like to be raised by this iteration of his mother.

They talk for another little while before the maid approaches the table and leans in close to Mummy’s ear to offer a quiet, “It’s one o’clock, Ma’am.”

The maid is dismissed with a wave of Mummy’s hand.

“John, I meant to show you around the mansion, but Sherlock will do it instead. You’ll have to excuse me, I’m feeling a little tired. I’ll go and rest for a while, and join you again in the afternoon.”

They all stand as she does, and while she needs to lean on the table for a second, her steps are even as she walks out on her own, joining the maid in the hallway. Sherlock follows, only to realize, slightly bemused, that she allows the maid to help her down to the back of the house rather than up the staircase. There’s a room back there. Sherlock’s grandmother used it whenever she visited when he was a child so she wouldn’t have to go up and down the steps.

“Are you showing me around, then?” John asks very close behind Sherlock, his hand resting against Sherlock’s back.

“If you insist,” Sherlock says absently. “James, do you want—”

“I’ll be in the music room,” James cuts in. “I want to practice something.”

Sherlock glances back at him. He’s looking out the windows at a few swirling snowflakes.

“Close the music room door so she won’t hear,” Sherlock advises, and while James nods, he doesn’t look toward Sherlock. He doesn’t look toward _them_ , Sherlock realizes. Does he ever when they’re touching? A question for another time. Maybe he’s just giving them some privacy.

Sherlock can’t think of many things more boring than taking someone around rooms and announcing what they are, as though John might be unable to guess on his own that this room is a library or that one a sitting room. Upstairs is just as dull, one bedroom after the other with a smaller library here or an office there. John seems inordinately interested to see Sherlock’s room, where the maid deposited James’ suitcase and coat.

“Hmm. And here I was expecting scorch marks on the walls and acid stains on the floor,” he says with a grin, making a show of looking around.

Sherlock looks at his old desk, empty and dust-free. “You’re not wrong. Twenty years ago, you’d have seen exactly that. She had the walls painted and the floors stained after I moved out.”

And then, every piece of furniture or décor was put back into place, as though Sherlock’s life could be straightened that easily. He walks out first, waiting in the hallway for John to be finished with his exploration.

“So, if James is sleeping in there, where did the maid put you?” John asks as he finally comes out.

An excellent question, which finds an answer after a bit of exploration. They have to go down to the north wing, throwing open every door on the way, before they find John’s suitcase and jacket in one of the guest rooms, and Sherlock’s suitcase, coat and violin case in the next one. The two rooms are joined by a shared bathroom.

“Well,” John says with a thin smile. “Short of putting us in the same room, she couldn’t have been any clearer.”

Something else that takes Sherlock aback. It’s not like his mother to be so emphatic in her approval, and this must have been decided before she even met John.

She gives him yet more reasons to be unsettled later that afternoon when she returns from her nap and gathers them all in the drawing room. In its center, a bare Christmas tree awaits. The ornaments are in large storage boxes all around it. Sherlock declines to help; he lost his interest in this particular tradition when he was about James’ age. James on the other hand is all too happy to play the game, and John, maybe afraid to offend her, doesn’t say no. She only puts up a handful of ornaments herself before coming to take a seat in her armchair near Sherlock.

“Before you leave,” she says quietly, “You and your brother need to divide the ornaments between the two of you.”

“I don’t want,” Sherlock starts, but a cluck of her tongue always stilled his own immediately.

“If you don’t want them for yourself, take them for Jo—James.”

He looks at her from the corner of his eye at the near slip. It’s only been weeks since he last saw her. How much worse is she now? Naps, no staircase, accepting help, her grasp on names slipping…

“Don’t give me that look,” she says, her voice quiet and mild. “I’m not that far gone that I can’t recognize pity.”

“Not pity,” Sherlock replies at once, just as quietly. “Worry, yes, but not _that_.”

She reaches out without looking at him, resting a hand on his arm. The touch is barely there, as though her hand already weighs nothing. Sherlock rests his own on top of it and presses down.

The rest of the day drags by as Sherlock can’t help but notice every little thing that adds up to the progression of the disease. Was she hiding it better last time? Was Sherlock too distracted to take everything in then? Is he noticing more because they’ve already been here longer than he and James stayed then?

She retires for the night early, and the three of them settle in front of the television in the sitting room. James goes up to bed a little after eleven. Once he’s gone, John turns a serious look to Sherlock, and Sherlock is sure he’s going to ask. Practicing or not, he’s still a doctor, and he can’t have failed to notice the signs. He probably has a diagnostic in mind already; Sherlock wonders if he should have told him before they even came here.

John says none of it, however. Instead, he leans over the sofa until his lips brush the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. As far as goodnight kisses go, it’s far from the nicest one he’s offered Sherlock. Is it the locale that’s putting him off?

“Don’t stay up all night,” he says as he stands. “You’ve got a nice bed waiting for you.”

Sherlock does his best to give him a smile, but it falls away as soon as John has left the room. Soon after, the maid checks in on him, inquiring whether he needs a snack or some chamomile maybe to help him sleep.

“I find it helps Mrs. Holmes sleep better at night,” she says as though making conversation, and Sherlock, even as he declines, has to wonder just how tired he looks for a stranger who’s never laid eyes on him before to notice.

He does go up, visiting the west wing only long enough to check that the light is off under James’ door and to retrieve something in Mycroft’s room across the hall. Back downstairs, he slips out through the French window in the drawing room. It’s still snowing, and the snow is beginning to stick to the ground. They might get a white Christmas, he thinks as he takes his first deep drag on Mycroft’s cigarette. The thought, more than the cold, sends a shiver through him. His last snowy Christmas in this house was not particularly pleasant.

The cigarette is low tar and entirely unsatisfying, but Sherlock smokes it to the filter before lighting a second one. By his third, the garden in front of him is shimmering with white but he’s not shaking so much anymore. 

Back to his room, he closes the door behind him and considers taking a shower to warm himself but loses track of his thoughts when he sees a form shifting then sitting up on his bed.

“John?” he murmurs, half convinced he’s imagining things.

Wrapped in a dressing gown over his night clothes, John stands, yawning. He’s barely disturbed the covers on top of which he was resting.

“Sorry. I was waiting for you but I guess I fell asleep. What time is it?”

Sherlock glances at his watch. “Past two.”

“What were you doing up so late?” John asks, coming closer.

Sherlock would very much like to ask the same question of him but he’s afraid he knows the answer. Of all possible nights, why does it have to be tonight? He closes his hands, nails digging into his palms. God but he hates this house. Everything always goes wrong here.

“I was watching the snow,” he says, just to say something. “It’s been a long time since I saw snow fall on the gardens.”

When John’s nose twitches, Sherlock knows he’s caught.

“You were smoking,” he says, crossing his arms. “When did you buy cigarettes?”

“I didn’t. Mycroft always has some in his room.”

John’s sigh is sheer disappointment turned into sound. Sherlock’s nails press in a little deeper into his skin.

“I thought you stopped,” John says, mildly reproachful.

Sherlock shrugs. “So did I.” He looks around the room to escape John’s gaze. “This house… it’s full of memories.”

It’s barely an explanation, let alone an excuse, and he expects John to point that out. Instead, John presses two fingers to Sherlock’s cheek and turns his head until their eyes meet again.

“Is it only this house?” he whispers.

Sherlock could play dumb and ask what he means. He could deny anything and everything until he’s blue in the face. But what would be the point? He’s too damn tired to pretend.

“When have you become so observant?” he says instead.

John huffs quietly. His thumb strokes Sherlock’s cheek, barely brushing against a trace of facial hair.

“When I started calling myself a consulting detective. But if I was more observant, I’d have seen it sooner. Do you want to talk about it?”

The question comes out in a rush, as though to acknowledge that this is something they don’t do, or at least not well, and not willingly. It’s always forced out of them by circumstances and volatile moods.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Sherlock says. “Besides, I’ve already told you everything that happened.”

Or at least, all the big lines. John doesn’t need details about some things. Sherlock doesn’t even want to know those details, so why should John have to hear about them?

Unfortunately, he’s not so easily deterred.

“All right,” he says quietly, and his thumb is still moving, the steady back and forth almost hypnotic. “Tell me this, then. When was the last time you had a good night of sleep?”

Sherlock knows exactly when that was. The night it all ended. The night he went home with an unexpected child in tow, and went to sleep thinking that soon he’d see John, talk to John, tell John… everything. The last night before he realized how wrong he’d been about everything.

There is no way he can say anything like that, not to John, not now.

“I’m fine,” he says, because by now it’s become a reflex to give that meaningless answer. “I’m home and I’m fine. Everything is just fine. Better than fine. By some strange miracle I have everything I never even knew I wanted. A few nights of poor sleep don’t change that.”

John rolls his eyes and drops his hand. It’s all Sherlock can do not to lurch forward and seek contact again.

“And you call _me_ an idiot,” John mutters. “Did it occur to you that maybe I could help? I’ve been there. Remember my imaginary limp? The one you cured by making me run after a cab?”

Oh, yes, Sherlock does remember. In his mind palace, this particular memory is kept in a mahogany box lined with velvet the same blue as John’s eyes. 

When he asks, “And where do you propose we run to cure my nightmares?” the question ends on a light scoff, but his entire mind is vibrating from the hope that maybe, just maybe, John might be able to help. He doesn’t even realize he’s using the word ‘nightmares’ until after it has passed his lips.

“No running,” John says, the words as direct and decisive as the look in his eyes. “You’ve done enough of that. It’s time to rest. Go wash that stink off your breath, put on your pajamas and get in bed.”

Every now and then, the soldier in John comes out more strongly, like now, and it’s always all Sherlock can do to stop himself from offering a ‘Yes Captain’ that John would think is him taking the piss even though it’d be anything but. With nothing more than a light nod, Sherlock walks over to the dresser, opening the suitcase on top of it and retrieves his bag of toiletries. As he turns to get to the bathroom, John is standing close again, his hand extended.

“Wait. Give me the cigarettes first.”

“Can’t,” Sherlock says with a weak smile. “I already binned them.”

John gives him a searching look as though to figure out whether he’s lying and finally lets him through. Sherlock isn’t lying. He took the cigarettes in the first place with the intention to dispose of them. He didn’t want Mycroft to smoke where James might see or smell it. How he ended up with the first one between his lips is harder to explain.

Only after he’s brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth thoroughly and splashed water on his face does he realize he should have taken his night clothes with him. When he walks back out of the bathroom, the only light left in the bedroom is the muted glow of the lamp on the night table. Sherlock’s stomach does a little lurching dance when he realizes John is in his bed. Not just lying on top of the covers again, but actually between the sheets. His discarded dressing gown is draped over the chair next to Sherlock’s coat; just the dressing gown, so he’s still wearing something. 

Should Sherlock take a shower? Should he shave? John apparently expects them to sleep together but is it only sleep or is it more than that? Whatever he wants, Sherlock would happily give him but—

“Pajamas,” John reminds him, and he pointedly rolls onto his side, his back to the dresser and suitcase.

Sherlock undresses while facing him, part of him curious to see whether John will peek. He doesn’t, addressing the far wall as he asks, “Did Mycroft give you your first cigarette?”

Snorting quietly, Sherlock digs into his suitcase for his pajamas.

“No. The other way around. He found me smoking in the garden on a school break when I was twelve. He was appalled. He took the cigarettes and was lecturing me when our father stumbled upon us. He thought the cigarettes were Mycroft’s. Mycroft didn’t say otherwise, even when our father made him smoke every cigarette in that pack one after the other until he’d turned green and was coughing his lungs out with each breath. A lesson for both of us, our father called it. It was four years before I picked up another cigarette. Mycroft says he doesn’t smoke but he always keeps a pack at hand. Especially here.”

Which was how Sherlock knew there’d be cigarettes somewhere in his room. Mycroft likes this house no more than Sherlock does, but he’s a more dutiful son, calling and visiting when Sherlock can’t do either unless he sees no other choice.

He’s been standing there in his old t-shirt and pajama pants for a few seconds when John finally looks back, then turns around, tugging the sheet and blanket open invitingly.

“Get in here,” he demands, that commanding tone back in his voice.

Sherlock approaches the bed slowly, struggling to find the right words. Weeks ago, when he said ‘no rush’, it was all about John, but now he’d like to claim the words back for himself. Is he allowed to do that or would it just make everything more complicated again?

“John… As much as I’ve been waiting for it to be the right time for you—”

“No,” John cuts in quietly. “It’s not about that. You’ve just told me something I have no idea how to reply to, so if you get in here I can hug you instead of trying to find words that aren’t too insulting toward your father.”

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath and finally climbs into bed. John pulls the covers up over him before drawing him close and wrapping him in his arms.

“Please, do feel free to insult him all you want,” Sherlock says against his shoulder, his voice muffled by the fabric of John’s t-shirt. “I ran out of new invectives a long time ago. Maybe you’ll have fresh ones, as unlikely as that sounds.”

John’s chuckle rocks both their bodies. His arms tighten a little more around Sherlock. In response, Sherlock’s fingers twist and tangle into his t-shirt.

“Maybe another time,” he says. “Close your eyes. Can you go to sleep like this?”

Closing his eyes, Sherlock considers the question. On one hand, his body is pressed along John’s in a way he’s imagined quite a few times before, and the sensations need to be catalogued and preserved. On the other hand, John is warm and surprisingly comfortable, and Sherlock is so _damn_ tired…

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “I’ve never done this.”

John strokes a light hand down his back. “Been in a bed with someone else?” he whispers.

Damn Mycroft and his insinuations…

“Cuddled,” Sherlock corrects, then frowns. He has to lean back to look at John and ask, “Is that what we’re doing? Cuddling? It’s really a stupid-sounding word. Is there another word for—”

John presses a closed-mouth kiss to his lips, silencing him.

“Hush. Close your eyes, I said. There you go. I’m not going anywhere, all right? So you can take more than a little catnap like you do at home. I’m here, and I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Resting his head on John’s shoulder again, Sherlock swallows hard. His shamming skills seem to have regressed to an alarming degree.

“You _have_ been observing,” he whispers.

“Not well enough, or I’d have tried this ages ago. Sleep.”

A dozen objections present themselves, not the least of them being worry for John’s safety. If Sherlock wakes up suddenly and finds himself held down, he isn’t sure how he might react. He’s about to voice his concern when John says again, “ _Sleep_.”

Sherlock sleeps.


	12. Silences

It’s the silence that wakes Sherlock.

It’s never as quiet as this in Baker Street.

He goes from deeply asleep to fully awake in a blink, his mind churning as he tries to figure out where in the world he is and whether it was safe to let himself sleep. At the same moment he recognizes the guest room, he becomes fully aware of the arm draped over his chest, the steady hand pressed to his heart, the warm body along his back.

“You’re fine,” John whispers behind his ear, his voice a little rough from sleep. “Sherlock, wake up, you’re fine.”

He really is. And yet…

“That word is starting to lose all its meaning,” he says, closing his eyes again and relishing the warmth that encompasses him.

John chuckles softly, and both their bodies rock at the sound. 

“You’re the one who uses it all the time. If you want to declare a ban, I’m all for it. Or you could stop using it when it’s not true.”

Sherlock makes a little humming sound and tries to find a better word. Lovely. Comfortable. Unexpectedly comfortable. Better, much better than he imagined sleeping alongside someone else might be. And nowhere near as awkward as he thought, even when he realizes why John is shifting his hips away rather than pressing fully against him.

“I don’t mind,” he says very quietly – quietly enough that John can pretend he didn’t hear, which he elects to do.

“Did you sleep well, then?” John asks, pulling his arm off Sherlock and rolling away from him.

Sherlock misses him at once. It’s all he can do to keep all his limbs to himself when he turns around to face John.

“Very well. Thank you.”

He sounds overly formal, but really, what does one say upon waking up in the same bed as the person they care for most in the world?

“We should get up,” John says, then blushes horribly. Frowning up at the ceiling, he corrects himself. “We should get out of bed.”

Sherlock catches on belatedly on the unintentional innuendo. He’d say again that he doesn’t mind, but John clearly doesn’t want to talk about this particular topic. Or do anything about it.

“Why get out of bed?” he asks, muffling a yawn against the pillow. “It’s not like we have anywhere to be or anything to do.”

“Maybe, but I’d feel like a terrible guest if I lounged all day. I don’t want your mum to think I’m rude.”

She wouldn’t, Sherlock thinks to himself. She might have, ages and ages ago, but she seems to have softened quite a bit. He doesn’t feel like discussing his mother right now, though, not when he’s in bed with John. Not when they’re close enough that it wouldn’t take much for Sherlock to reach out a hand and touch John’s arm – just like this.

“Thank you,” he says very quietly, drawing the words with a fingertip against John’s skin. “For last night. For being observant. And clever. And allowing me to have one good night of sleep.”

John rolls onto his side, facing Sherlock and capturing his errant fingers within both his hands. 

“Who said it’d be just one night?” he asks.

Last night, Sherlock thought he meant more than sleep; this morning, it’s obvious he doesn’t, not when he pulled back, not when even now he’s not touching more than Sherlock’s hand. It’s fine. It’s more than fine – even if the word does seem useless.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says again. He’s rarely meant the words more.

*

An hour or so later, when Sherlock comes down for breakfast, John is seated at the table with his mother and James. It’s all very domestic – and rather frighteningly familiar, even after all those years and half-hearted attempts to delete unneeded memories. Sherlock is careful to sit next to John again rather than at the head of the table. There are places he’ll never care to occupy.

As he told John, there really isn’t anything for them to do around the house and the day crawls by, punctuated by food, tea, and a fairly horrifying trek down memory lane when his mother decides to pull out an old photo album. Sherlock has no intention to sit there and look at those stiff, posed pictures. 

“I’m going out,” he declares, and while he doesn’t ask for company, he certainly hoped for better than, “In all that snow?” delivered by John’s slightly bemused voice.

He’s already been out for a little while when he hears running steps on the snow behind him. He doesn’t need to look back to know it’s James catching up with him.

“Is it all right if I come with you?” he asks, falling into step with Sherlock.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sherlock warns. “Just walking around the property. Nothing fun about that, let me assure you.”

“It’s okay. I like snow.”

For a few minutes, there’s no sound other than the snow crunching under their feet. It stopped snowing during the night, but gray clouds hang low; before nightfall, there won’t be a trace left of their passage.

“You don’t like it much here,” James says finally.

It’s not a question and Sherlock could just let it pass. If it were anyone else, to one exception, he would. But, boredom and old pictures notwithstanding, he’s feeling calmer, more clear-headed than he was in weeks. Enough so to realize James didn’t come along to trudge through a few centimeters of snow for the sheer fun of it.

“I used to,” he says. “When I was small, I did love it. As long as I learned my lessons, I could pretty much run around as much as I wanted and run whatever experiments I wanted. But then I was sent away to school. It didn’t feel like home anywhere when I came back.”

It’s the truth, but not the whole truth. It could have been a coincidence that he was sent to boarding school just months after he told his mother about his father and the maid. After all, Mycroft had been sent away at the same age, too. But Sherlock doesn’t believe in coincidences.

“Is that why you didn’t want me to go to boarding school?” James asks, his shoulder brushing against Sherlock’s arm for a few steps.

Sherlock shrugs. “I just don’t understand why anyone would want to go to.”

That, too, is the truth, if not the whole truth.

They reach the edge of the property, where a wooden fence that never stopped Sherlock stands between them and woods that don’t seem as vast as they used to two or three decades ago. They continue along the fence, and Sherlock says, “You seriously considered going away for school. Does it bother you that much to be around John and me?”

At his side, James misses a step and catches himself on the fence before he can fall face first in the snow.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he says, looking up at Sherlock with a furrowed brow.

Facing him fully, Sherlock takes in his flushed cheeks (cold, not embarrassment), his wide, clear eyes (well-rested, actually surprised), his scarf (sloppily knotted, he was in a rush to catch up with Sherlock), his bare hand still resting on the fence (no glove. Why no glove? He always wears his gloves when it’s cold. His fingers are bone white. If he’s not wearing them it must mean he forgot them, either at the mansion or back in London. Was he wearing them when they left? Sherlock can’t recall.)

“Of course it bothers you,” he says as he peels off his gloves, “you consistently avert your eyes whenever John and I demonstrate our affection for each other, be it through touching or kissing and even though both have remained fairly mild to date.”

He holds the gloves out to James, who looks at them for a few seconds as though he doesn’t know what they’re for.

“Your hands are freezing,” Sherlock says with a small roll of his eyes. “Put these on. Both my mother and John will blame me if you get frostbite.”

It’s nowhere near cold enough for that, but James doesn’t point it out and takes the gloves with a meek word of thanks. They are too big for him, and he waves his fingers a bit, watching the extra leather flop around and smiling faintly.

“It really doesn’t bother me,” he says without looking at Sherlock. “I’m happy for you that you got what you wanted. I didn’t like that you were so sad before.”

As he starts to lead the way back toward the house, Sherlock buries his hands in his pockets and doesn’t point out that ‘what he wanted’ hardly included John having to suffer through grief again.

“Then why do you keep averting your eyes?” he asks instead.

From the corner of his eye, he can see James shrug.

“What else am I supposed to do? Stare? I just don’t want you to stop because of me and…” He drops his voice to a whisper. “And be sorry I’m there.”

Sherlock’s first instinct is to scoff at the idea that they would stop holding hands or kissing just because James is around. Except… haven’t they done that? Not because they were embarrassed, but because it seemed that James was uncomfortable at the displays. Cause and consequence seem rather indefinite here.

“Of course we’re not sorry you’re there,” he says as matter-of-factly as he can manage. “And we certainly don’t expect you to look away or pretend you’re not there whenever we happen to clasp hands.”

They’re quiet for a little while. Snow starts falling again, scattered flakes that nonetheless seem to swallow sounds right along with emotions. Ahead of them, the manor looks like a half-finished impressionist painting.

“Father minded,” James says suddenly. “He didn’t hold hands with Sebastian but they kissed sometimes, and… and… hugged. And things. He didn’t like it when I came into the room and saw them. He’d send Sebastian away. Sebastian always got really mad about it.”

There’s a thread of vindictive satisfaction in those last words, and Sherlock takes a shot in the dark.

“So you made sure to interrupt as often as you could.”

James lets out a quick bark of laughter. “I did, yes. I never liked Sebastian, not even before…”

There’s no trace left of a laugh when his voice trails off. He shivers a little. Sherlock brushes a few snowflakes off his shoulder. His hand stays there until they get back to the manor.

*

Another quiet evening trickles by in front of the television, this time with Mycroft drifting in and out of the room to take phone calls. When he comes back the fourth time, he carries three glasses, two of which he offers to John and Sherlock without a word. The scotch is nearly as old as Sherlock, as deep as amber, smooth as it slides down Sherlock’s throat. 

James eyes the glasses but doesn’t ask for a taste. Not long after that, he says goodnight, but only after assuring himself once more at what time they’ll be opening the gifts that already wait at the foot of the tree. John finishes his glass and excuses himself as well. His lips are still wet from the drink when they brush against Sherlock’s. 

He doesn’t say, “Don’t be long” but it’s right there in the curve of his smile and the light in his eyes, obvious enough that Mycroft can’t possibly miss it. Sherlock couldn’t care less.

The room feels strangely smaller when it’s just the two of them left, as though crowded by memories of their childhood. With the television off, the only sound is that of the wood cracking in the fireplace until Sherlock clears his throat and asks, “When were you going to tell me Mummy intends to…”

His voice betrays him, and he can’t finish. They’re just words, nothing but words, but the act itself is real; in Sherlock’ mind, it smells like gunpowder and blood, even though he’s sure she wouldn’t choose such a messy method.

Mycroft closes his eyes briefly. His posture changes ever so slightly until he seems to let the armchair swallow him. 

“I correctly assumed you’d figure it out the same way I did, brother mine. All the clues are there.”

They are, indeed. It’s not just the Christmas ornaments she decided to give away. She apparently tried to convince John to take the picture album when they leave – he thankfully declined – and after dinner she told James he can take whatever books he wants from the library as long as he checks first with Mycroft and Sherlock that it’s not something they want for themselves. That library was always her pride and joy, with enough signed first editions on the shelves to buy at least three houses as big as this one. Add to that her physical deterioration, the way she called Mycroft by their father’s name over dinner, her insistence that Christmas’ brunch tomorrow must be ‘perfect’… It wasn’t much of a leap to make.

“You should have told me,” Sherlock mutters.

Mycroft let out a tired, heavy sigh. “I got you here. It’s as good as telling you. You knowing won’t change anything anyway. She’s a grown woman, still capable of making decisions for herself.” After a brief pause, he adds, more quietly, “I would make the same choice if I were in her place. And don’t pretend for a second you wouldn’t do the same.”

Although Sherlock doesn’t reply, he’s not entirely sure Mycroft is right. Once, certainly, that choice would have been easy; to lose command of his mind would be a worse fate than death. But whatever the reasons, could he do it now, when he’s already forced John to go through it once, when he’s told James that’s how his father died?

No, he couldn’t do it. Not unless he planned it well enough that absolutely no one could guess it was self-inflicted.

“Goodnight Mycroft,” he says as he stands, leaving his empty glass on the coffee table.

In the drawing room, the old clock strikes midnight.

“Happy Christmas,” Mycroft murmurs.

Upstairs, Sherlock’s bedroom is dark. John is in bed, waiting for him. If possible, Sherlock is even more grateful than he was last night.


	13. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. My muse is being uncooperative and i can't string two sentences together without wanting to start from scratch. Which is why i'm posting this at 1.30 am. If i wait until morning, i'll probably trash the whole thing again. Hopefully it's readable.

Waking up is a matter of déjà vu. Again, irrational panic sets in before reason can prevail, and Sherlock starts to pull away from the arms trapping him, intending to get free so he can strike back or escape. Quiet words bring him back to the present, to reality. He takes in a shaky breath, forces his body to relax and closes his eyes again.

“Bad dream?” John murmurs after a moment.

“No,” Sherlock replies automatically, before conceding, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Sherlock dreamed, last night, he’s fairly sure of it, but he doesn’t remember what the dreams were. It can’t have been all that bad; if that had been the case, he’d probably have awakened John. That’s at least something, even if it doesn’t stop the sense of vague humiliation at showing this kind of weakness in front of John.

To deflect the conversation, he says the first thing that passes through his mind.

“I’m taller than you are.”

John’s scoff tickles the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“You’re also stating the obvious. Any reason in particular or is that an effect of still being half asleep?”

“It merely occurred to me that it would be more logical for our positions to be reversed. My front to your back. Our height difference—”

“Doesn’t matter one bit,” John cuts in. “I’m the big spoon. End of story.”

For a moment, Sherlock is sure he heard wrong. But he replays John’s words and no, it wasn’t a mistake, John did say—

“Spoon? What on Earth are you talking about?”

He tries to turn around, but John’s hold tightens briefly, demanding that he remains as he is. On the whole, it’s not much of a hardship to comply.

“What we’re doing right now,” John says, his tone very serious but a hint of suppressed laughter lining his words like a ray of sunlight, “is called spooning. And me being behind you makes me the big spoon.”

It’s the most ridiculous abuse of the English language Sherlock has heard in a while, and he’d say as much if John didn’t add, “I’m going to take a wild guess and bet you’ve never done this before either.”

Sherlock sniffs. “Counting yesterday, this would be my second time at _spooning_. And that really is an undignified word. Even worse than cuddling.”

John’s body shake all along Sherlock’s, which is when he comes to notice that, unlike yesterday, John is not keeping his lower half far enough to avoid contact. The realization that yes, this is indeed John’s hard prick pressing against the small of his back momentarily short-circuits his mind, so that he has to ask John to repeat his question.

“I said, never mind what it’s called. Do you enjoy doing it?”

Sherlock isn’t actually doing anything, just lying on his side, allowing himself to be held. But does he like this? The answer surprises him, like so many things about John.

Very slowly so as not to dislodge John’s arm, he moves his own, covering John’s hand with his.

“I do,” he says quietly. “More so than prior sexual experiences would have led me to expect.”

He knows, at the moment John tenses behind him and even though it’s only for a couple of seconds, that he’s made a mistake.

“Not good?” he offers quietly. “I’ll refrain from alluding to my past if it bothers you.”

“No, it’s okay. I just didn’t expect you to mention that so casually. To tell the truth I wasn’t even sure you’d ever been intimate with anyone.”

The word surprises Sherlock. He supposes it’s accurate in the sense that sexual relations can be called ‘intimate’, but it still seems grossly inadequate for its connotation of closeness.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he says with a small shrug. “They were just experiments. I needed data. Willing participants were easy enough to recruit while I needed them. It sometimes seemed my university peers could think of little else.”

John remains silent for so long that Sherlock starts to wonder if he’s committed another faux-pas. He’s about to apologize when John clears his throat.

“So. What you mean is. You haven’t been with anyone since uni.”

With nothing to base himself on other than John’s whisper-quiet voice, Sherlock can’t quite figure out what’s going on in his mind. Lifting John’s arm off his chest, he holds on to it as he turns around, facing John, then draping it back at his waist.

“That is correct,” he says. “Problem?”

The room faces east and enough light filters through the drapes for him to observe John’s features closely. There’s surprise there, but not the amusement or pity he’s used to from people whenever the topic of his experience in sexual matters or lack thereof comes up.

“No problem,” John hastens to say. “Just… can I ask you a question?” He waits for Sherlock’s assent to continue. “Are you at all interested in a… physical relationship? With me?”

In retrospect, the question was bound to rise. Sherlock has let John initiate every development in their relationship, and flat out told him he’d be okay if they were to never sleep in the same bed. Add in what Sherlock just revealed…

“Generally speaking?” he says. “No. But with you?”

He presses his hips forward, briefly pressing his prick against John’s, matching hardness to hardness through layers of thin fabric before pulling back again.

“Does this answer your question?” he asks, shifting his head closer on the pillow until he can brush the last words against John’s lips.

John doesn’t reply, or at least not in words. It takes next to nothing for his mouth to press fully against Sherlock, and barely more effort than that to push Sherlock onto his back, John’s hand on Sherlock’s cheek, his body sprawled half on, half off him. It’s hardly the first time they kiss, but it feels different somehow. The press and slide of tongue against tongue is the same as always, unhurried and almost careful, and as always it makes Sherlock feel like tendrils of warmth are wrapping around him. He never cared for kissing, never understood the point of it, not until the first time John’s lips met his own. 

But, for the first time, it feels like a prelude to something else, something more, something that shouldn’t make Sherlock so nervous, that shouldn’t knot his insides as tightly as his hands twisting into John’s t-shirt – but it does. 

Someone makes a small, almost whining sound – it must be John, because Sherlock doesn’t make sounds like that, not ever, not even when his hips seem to have a mind of their own, rocking gently against John’s, or when he deepens the kiss without even realizing he’s doing it. Never mind warmth, it’s pure lava coursing through his veins, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of—

It’s over in the time of a blink.

One second, there’s nothing between the two of them other than a few squares centimeters of fabric. The next, John is seated on the edge of the bed, his back to Sherlock, and the expanse of empty bed between them feels as wide as an ocean.

Sherlock stares at the ceiling for a few second, trying to calm his racing heart for the second time this morning but for very different reasons than when he woke up.

“I’m sorry,” John says, breathing hard. “I can’t.”

Sherlock turns his head to look at John’s back, noting the slight tremors that shake him. He’d like to rest his hand there, but he doubt it’d help right now.

“No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“You didn’t push. I wanted this as much as you.” He sighs. “It’s just… today. Christmas. I…” His voice drops to a whisper. “I proposed on Christmas. I thought it’d be… I don’t know.”

“Romantic,” Sherlock finishes for him. “Of course you wouldn’t want to sully that memory with—”

John turns to him, his eyes ablaze. “No. It’s not about… _sullying_ anything. I want this.” He reaches out, touching Sherlock’s arm with the back of two fingers. “I want _you_. Just… not today.”

“I’ve told you before—”

“New Year’s,” John interrupts. “Give me until the New Year.”

“There’s no need to put a date on—”

“New Year,” John repeats.

He leans across the bed just long enough to seal that promise with a brush of his lips, then he stands and walks into the bathroom. Sherlock holds his breath until the door has closed behind him. His desire has ebbed down, but he still feels an odd flutter of anticipation. 

He meant what he said, he doesn’t need them to set a date on anything or follow a timeline.

Still.

New Year is just a week away.

*

If John’s memories of his last Christmas linger in his mind, he gives no sign of it at breakfast, where he wishes everyone a happy Christmas before helping himself to the French pastries that are customary in this house on this day.

Bright eyed and clearly excited, James finishes before the rest of them but he stays in his seat, fidgeting a little, waiting for everyone to be done, and Sherlock can’t help but smile a little wistfully. He hasn’t looked forward to Christmas in quite a long time, but he does remember being as impatient as James is when he was a child. His excitement is contagious, and while Sherlock doesn’t much care to open presents he deduced a while ago, he looks forward to seeing James’ and John’s reactions to their presents – and yes, even his mother’s.

As always, she’s the one who signals when it’s finally time to pass into the drawing room and they soon sit around the tree, Mycroft, as head of the family, passing out the presents in turns.

James’ first present, his gift from Mummy, is clearly not something he expected, and while he gives the appropriate smiles and words of thanks, it’s obvious he doesn’t think three complete sets of his school uniform, along with an old-fashioned leather book bag, are worthy to be Christmas presents. Sherlock thought the same, long ago. Maybe Mummy hasn’t changed as much as he thought she had.

His next present is, again, clothes, this time from John: a pair of jeans, a cashmere jumper and novelty socks with a pattern of music notes. They’re quite a departure from James’ suits, but the quality seems good enough that James might actually wear them. In any case, his thanks sound a little more sincere.

He’s fairly more enthusiastic when he opens the next package. Mycroft bought him a laptop, “So you can do your school work,” he says. Sherlock makes a mental note to check it for tracking programs.

His last present is a slim ebook reader, preloaded with a hundred titles for a start, an assortment of fiction and non-fiction, and Sherlock feels quietly self-satisfied that his present is the one for which James’ eyes widen the most.

Mycroft seems quite pleased with his new umbrella, with a set of interchangeable carved handles, and John exclaims happily over the trilogy of mystery novels James got for him, and the new watch that is Sherlock’s present. His old watch was broken in the accident, and he’s been glancing at his bare wrist for weeks, always putting off buying a new one. He doesn’t mention the inscription on the back, but he smiles when he notices it. It seems even more appropriate today.

 _No rush_.

Sherlock’s assurances that he requires no present have been soundly ignored.

John found him a kit exactly similar to the one Sherlock lost somewhere in Russia, with lock-picking tools, a magnifying glass and tiny plastic boxes for samples. A most useful and appreciated gift, even more so for the thin disapproving smirk it brings to Mycroft’s lips. Sherlock had deduced it days ago, but he still manages to feign surprise.

He’s not shamming anymore when he unwraps James’ present. After James’ shopping trip with Mycroft, Sherlock figured out his gift would be some kind of garment, possibly a scarf or shirt, but apparently that was a decoy because both James and Mycroft look awfully smug when Sherlock unwraps a folio of ancient-looking music sheet. Back when they still exchanged presents, Mycroft used decoy gifts a few times to preserve some surprise; Sherlock had forgotten all about that.

The music pieces are all from the same little-known composer whose work is extremely difficult to find. Just glancing through the dozen or so sheets, Sherlock can already tell they’ll be a challenge to play – a welcome one.

At James’ request, Mummy is the last to open her gift. She, too, receives music sheets: two of them, the paper white and crisp, the notes inscribed by the most careful of hands. She smiles and thanks James, but there’s a tightness to her lips and Sherlock thinks he can guess why. He hasn’t seen her at the piano since they arrived.

“The sheets aren’t your present,” James tells her, pride and excitement all but bursting out of him. “The music is. I wrote it for you and I can play it too if you want. It’s not very good but—”

“I’m sure it’s excellent,” Mummy cuts in, and if her words shake a little bit, Sherlock guesses it’s not from her illness.

They adjourn to the music room, where James sits at the piano. Sherlock stands next to him with his violin. It’s a simple composition – James’ first – but he made a point of writing it for piano and violin. They’ve practiced it in his bedroom, but it sounds much better in a room made for music and with an appreciative audience. Sherlock can’t recall when he last played for his mother – played because he wanted to, not because it was demanded of him. He’s glad he has this chance today.

*

After lunch – a long, overly complicated affair – Sherlock insists to help his mother to his room for her now-customary nap.

“It really is Christmas,” she jokes as they step down the hallway. “First you play for me, now this…”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, not until they’re in her room and he closes the door behind them. When she tries to remove her cardigan, he helps her and sets it aside on the chair by her vanity desk while she sits on the bed, then reclines. Under the cover of looking at the beauty products on the desk, he observes her in the mirror; she’s watching him back.

“Say it,” she says with a sigh. “Whatever it is. And give me the afghan, would you.”

He picks up the crocheted blanket on the dresser and unfolds it before turning to her. He’s been preparing his words since the music room, when she, Mycroft and John made requests in turns of him and James. He doubts it’ll change anything, but he has to try, just in case.

“A few weeks ago,” he finally says, spreading the blanket over her legs more carefully than absolutely required, “I had to tell James his father committed suicide without thinking for a second about how that would impact his son.”

When he looks at her, it’s to find a clear, understanding gaze detailing him.

“It must be difficult for a child,” she says. “Especially one too young to understand the reasons behind the act. I barely remember when you and Mycroft were that young, but I don’t think you ever were that innocent.”

Reading between the lines is all too easy; it’s all he’s ever done in this house.

“No, we probably weren’t,” he agrees. “And we still aren’t today. But James is different. And he’s grown extremely fond of you, even in the short time he’s known you.”

He’s not going to beg. He’s not even going to insult her by asking her to come back on her decision. But as he brushes a kiss to her cheek, he murmurs, “He could use more happy memories. If you feel up for visitors, we could come back for Easter.”

When he pulls back, her eyes are closed, but she grabs his hand before he can walk away.

“We’ll see,” is all she says, and for now it’s enough.


	14. Birthday Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Samera and Rix, hoping you'll like this - and the other thing.
> 
> ~
> 
> A bit shorter than usual, sorry. It just seemed like a perfect place to stop...

When he was a small child, Sherlock often bemoaned the fact that his birthday was only two weeks after Christmas. It always seemed that Mycroft, born in the middle of the summer, received excellent gifts for his birthday, while Sherlock’s presents felt like his parents believed he’d had enough for Christmas and didn’t need much more.

It might be why he made sure James’ birthday, only two days after Christmas, wouldn’t feel like an afterthought. That, and James’ insistence that this be a proper holiday with presents for everyone made it clear that he hadn’t celebrated Christmas in recent memory; it’s obvious Moran didn’t bother celebrating James’ birthday any more than he did Christmas.

The day starts with a trip to the nearest town. Sherlock borrows his mother’s car; she hasn’t driven it in months, nor is she likely to use it again, but it starts without trouble. Both John and James try to get out of him where they’re going, but Sherlock just smiles and says nothing. It’s not as though they can’t guess food will be involved; after all, he made sure neither had breakfast before they left.

If the surprise is ostensibly for James, Sherlock sees it as a bonus that he can do something a little unexpected for John, too. With everything John does for him, Sherlock finds himself wanting to do nice things for him in return when it wouldn’t have occurred to him only three years ago.

He parks around the corner from their destination and, still smiling, still silent in front of their repeated questions and increasingly silly guesses, leads the way into a little shop and asks for a table. He hasn’t been in here in more years than he cares to remember, but it’s the same as always: rather than a menu, the waitress brings a basket of mini croissants, toasted bread and fresh baguette slices along with twenty-five sample jars of jams, marmalades, jellies and honey. She gives the standard explanation about the jams and so forth being produced locally, makes sure they know they can buy full-size jars on their way out, and asks what kind of tea or coffee they want with their degustation.

James doesn’t wait until she’s gone to dig in, picking up a jar at random and slathering yellow jam onto a slice of baguette. He’s grinning as he takes his first bite, and Sherlock congratulates himself – or he would if John wasn’t looking at him with a rather bemused expression.

“How on Earth do you know about this place?” he asks. “You have to be starving to consent to have breakfast!”

“I knew the owner. Helped her when she had some trouble with an employee with sticky hands when I was James’ age.”

It’s not a case per se, not when the particulars are so simple that anyone could have solved the issue, but both John and James look interested, so Sherlock tells them about it, his tale interrupted with frequent comments about the taste of this or that sample. James makes a point of trying every single sample, while John goes for a few random ones. Sherlock for his part sticks to an old favorite – clover honey from the McAllister property. It tastes exactly as he remembered.

They’re just about finished when an old woman approaches their table, takes one good look at him through thick glasses, and sets two large jars of clover honey in front of him.

“I believe we’d said two jars a year, Sherlock. But you’ve fallen behind in collecting your due.”

Caroline breaks into a smile as she finishes and Sherlock smiles back. 

“I’d forgotten how good it tastes but now that I remember I might have to be more diligent.”

She gestures for him to get up, as he knew she would, and he complies, accepting and returning the hug she offers with a lot less strength than she used to. He’s not all that fond of hugs as a whole, but she was the first person to actually ‘hire’ him and offer payment of a sort to help her so he can tolerate this. He sits down again when she lets go, and she turns her attention to his companions.

“And who are your friends, then?”

He could give her their names, and he knows it would be enough for her. But their names wouldn’t begin to explain just how important they are to him, and for some reason he wants her to know. It might be because he woke up once again in John’s arms after a good night of sleep, or because James’ smile seems a little brighter, lately.

“This is my son, James,” he says, a little surprised despite himself at how easily the word rolls off his tongue. One look at James shows that he’s surprised, too, but still smiling. “And this is John, my—”

It occurs to him that they’ve never talked about what word to use to refer to each other. He’s called John his colleague, his flatmate, his blogger, his friend, but none of it is enough anymore. He absolutely refuses to use the word boyfriend. That only leaves one choice, and it comes out after a slight hesitation.

“—partner.”

A slight twitch of his eyebrows is John’s only reaction. Sherlock relaxes a little as Caroline introduces herself, shakes hands and asks inane questions such as whether they all had a nice Christmas or are enjoying the countryside. 

No, he’s not just relaxing, Sherlock realizes. It’s more than that. He’s simply _content_. That’s not something he’s used to feeling outside of the Work, and even then it’s always too brief, the satisfaction of a closed case fading away when a new one fails to materialize soon enough. This… this just might last.

When Caroline asks James how old he is and he proudly says he’s turning thirteen today, she insists he must take home some jam as a present, and leads him to the shelves in the back to choose. As Sherlock watches them go, John’s foot pushes against his under the table, demanding his attention.

“Partner?” he asks, one eyebrow raised, his lips curving up ever so slightly.

“Would you prefer a different term?”

John shakes his head. “I like this one just fine. I was just… surprised, I guess. Although I’m not sure why I was. And this was a lovely outing, thank you.”

A little while later, as they return to the mansion with the honey as well as jars of James’ and John’s favorite jams, James thanks Sherlock in much the same terms. He doesn’t mention Sherlock calling him his son, but when he catches Sherlock’s gaze in the rearview mirror, there seems to be an extra spark in his eyes.

*

Lunch is served late, both because they had a big breakfast and because Mycroft, who went back to London on Christmas day but is returning to celebrate James’ birthday, can’t be back before two in the afternoon. Mummy is not pleased by the disruption to her schedule, but she keeps her griping to a minimum and coaxes James to play the piano for her as they wait. The distraction works for James, too, as he’s been sneaking glances into the dining room since he realized his presents are waiting in there.

“I could open just one while we wait for Mycroft,” he pleads once or twice – or even four or five times – and pretends to pout when Sherlock, John, Mummy – and even Mycroft when James texts him to ask if he’d mind if James opened one present – all tell him he’ll have to wait. There’s a good reason for that, even if they can’t tell him. Sherlock suggested a theme for James’ birthday presents, and opening one would give away the surprise.

Mycroft finally arrives and James is all but bouncing out of his own skin in anticipation… until he realizes he’s expected to wait until after lunch to open his presents.

Sherlock takes pity on him when the maid clears the table to make room for the cake.

“You can open them now,” he says, and James is already jumping out of his chair to grab the pile from the cabinet and set it on the table. 

He starts with the slim envelope on top from Mycroft, tearing it open with eager fingers… and looks so absolutely nonplussed when he pulls out the plain white card that Sherlock can’t help glancing at John and sharing a grin with him.

“That’s… a phone number,” James says, turning the card over, but there isn’t anything else on there.

“Indeed it is,” Mycroft says with a thin smile. “I suggest you program it in your phone. You might as well do it now.”

James does as he is told, though it’s clear he’s still confused.

“It’s not your number,” he says, looking up from his phone to Mycroft. “Whose number is it?”

“One of my assistants. Should you need a ride to go… _somewhere_ , you may call this number and request a car.”

“To go somewhere?” James repeats. “Like what? School?”

“No, not school. Keep opening your presents, you’ll understand.”

James is frowning when he puts his phone down and picks up the largest box – John’s present. He tears off the wrapping and opens the lid to reveal a pair of leather boots. He stares at them for the longest time before turning to John and saying, “They’re riding boots.”

John gives him a look of exaggerated surprise. “Are they? I thought they’d look good with your new jeans. Do you like them?”

“They’re very nice, yes. Thank you.”

There’s enough longing in his voice for Sherlock to want to give the game away right now, but he manages to keep quiet. James will figure it out soon enough. Probably even now, as he opens Sherlock’s gift and draws out a riding helmet.

His head snaps up toward Sherlock, his eyes questioning, full of hope.

“Open the last one, darling,” Mummy urges, and James does with slightly shaky hands. The thin box contains a brochure for a riding centre in London and a member card to his name. 

He looks at each gift again in turn, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. The maid has time to come in, place the cake in the middle of the table and dessert plates in front of each of them, and James still hasn’t said anything. Finally he sets the card and brochure down and gets up. His eyes are gleaming wetly, and for a second Sherlock worries that he made a mistake and the surprise, far from pleasing James, is drawing up unwelcome memories. He’s soon reassured as James walks over to Mummy and gives her an awkward hug and a murmured “Thank you”, which she answers with a kiss to his cheek. He goes around the table, offering brief hugs in guise of thanks. Sherlock gets a slightly longer hug, and a choked up question.

“Did you plan all this?”

“I merely made a few suggestions,” Sherlock replies. “I did try to have your grandmother buy you a horse but she wouldn’t budge.”

James’ smile wavers a bit as he returns to his seat, but it’s still a smile.

“Sixteen,” Mummy sniffs. “I had to wait until I was sixteen before I had my own horse and I think that’s a fine rule to stick to.”

She’s not actually making a promise, but Sherlock thinks he can hear something in her voice, and a quick glance at Mycroft, who meets Sherlock’s eyes with a meaningful blink, tells him he’s not the only one hearing it.

“Shall we light the candles then?” John says.

Just as he finishes, Sherlock’s phone chimes in his pocket. And at the exact same moment, so do John’s, Mycroft’s and James’ phones.

“Boys,” Mummy says in a reproachful tone. “Do you really need to have these infernal devices with you right now?”

If any one of these phones had rung on its own, they might have ignored it. But all four at once? It’s too much of a coincidence, and they all check them despite Mummy’s disapproval. James has his own in hand first.

“It’s a text message with just a link,” he says, already clicking it.

Sherlock does the same a split second later. He hears a familiar voice rise from James’ phone, soon echoed by his own, John’s and Mycroft’s. They all play the same repeated four words, the short video accompanying them looping over the crudely animated image of Jim Moriarty.

“Did you miss me?”


	15. Digesting An Elephant

A few seconds trickle by to the rhythm of Moriarty’s words. John shuts off his phone first. Mycroft does the same only a second after him and stands, dialing urgently as he strides out of the room. 

Sherlock watches the video loop two more times, his mind buzzing with a thousand undefined thoughts before one single word silences everything else.

James.

He tears his gaze off his phone and turns it off, looking across the table at James. He’s still staring at the screen, his eyes unblinking, his lips pressed together in a thin line. There’s no trace of a smile left in him, none of that joy he exuded just moments ago.

Someone is going to pay for this, Sherlock thinks. Whoever is responsible for this cruel trick will be sorry long before Sherlock is done with them.

“Turn it off, James,” he says, to absolutely no effect.

“What is going on?” Mummy asks, frowning at all of them in turns. “What is this thing you’re listening to? Where did Mycroft go?”

“We all received a video,” John starts, but that’s all he says, as though he’s not quite sure how to continue.

Standing, Sherlock walks around the table to go to James. He covers the phone with his hand and takes hold of it. James doesn’t surrender it right away, but after looking up at Sherlock, he finally lets go. Sherlock shuts it off and briefly considers taking the phone away from James for now to stop him from looking at that video again the moment he’s out of Sherlock’s sight. In the end, he simply sets the phone on the table and rests a hand of James’ shoulder. James turns to stone under his fingers.

“What’s happening,” Sherlock says, ostensibly to his mother but in effect for James’ benefit, too, “is that someone decided to play a ridiculous joke on all of us. I expect Mycroft went to get his people to track down whoever it was.”

Sherlock would like nothing more than to go after Mycroft and listen in on that conversation. Or better yet, he’d like to go up to his room, get on his laptop, and start working on tracking down the culprit himself, but if he does that, if he appears to be worried by this prank, James will get the wrong idea. So, he won’t do that, however much he wants to. 

He squeezes James’ shoulder lightly before letting go. James is staring straight ahead of him, his face void of expression.

“Do you want to blow the candles?” Sherlock asks. “Or is thirteen too old for candles?”

James shakes his head. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he says tonelessly. “May I be excused?”

Rather than answering, Sherlock plucks the unlit candles from the cake and picks up the knife set on the edge of the platter. He wills his hand to be perfectly steady when he makes the first cut into the chocolate frosting. He cuts a generous slice, transfers it to James’ plate, and keeps cutting, asking Mummy for her plate, then John. John hands both his own and Sherlock’s, offering a tight-lipped smile that shows he understands what Sherlock is trying to do. When Sherlock gets back to his seat, James still hasn’t touched his cake. Neither has Mummy, as she observes James with a worried look matched by John’s.

Ignoring what just happened isn’t going to work, Sherlock realizes. He might as well face it head on.

“I don’t know who sent that video,” he says, “but it wasn’t your father.”

James snorts. His head moves jerkily to turn to Sherlock. “Yes it was. Did you _look_ at it?”

“I did. And I saw badly animated images that could have been taken from those videos he did as Richard Brook.”

At the end of the table, Mummy looks horrified.

“His father?” she says quietly, at the same time as James snorts again.

“Those images weren’t from his DVDs,” he says, his tone now verging toward scathing. “The Storyteller never dressed like that. And didn’t you see in the background…”

He trails off as Mycroft walks back into the room, turning in his chair to look at him. Mycroft’s eyes are very dark as they find Sherlock’s. He doesn’t say anything, merely tilts his head ever so slightly before walking back out. To Sherlock, the invitation to follow is loud and clear.

“Excuse me,” he mutters, and hurries after Mycroft.

He expected John would follow, but he isn’t the only one who enters the library after Sherlock and Mycroft. James comes, too, as does Mummy.

When Sherlock turns to James, he doesn’t have time to say a word before James already interjects, “I asked to be excused. You wouldn’t let me go. Now I’m not going anywhere.”

Part of Sherlock wants to send him out of the room anyway; he doesn’t know what Mycroft has to say, and Sherlock might want to keep some of it from James. At the same time, though, he knows how badly James would take that, and suspects it would only reinforce James’ suspicions that Sherlock lied to him. No, now is not the time to hide anything from James.

“Go ahead,” he tells Mycroft, and if Mycroft thinks anything of his extended audience, he doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow before he starts speaking.

“At 15.15, every internet-enabled mobile phone in the country received the same text message we did. Every. Single. One of them. I am told her Majesty did not particularly appreciate the disruption.” He pauses briefly, just long enough to grimace, and starts again. “At the same moment, every television channel started broadcasting the same video. They still haven’t managed to figure out how it was done or how to stop the transmission.”

“Where did the messages come from?” Sherlock asks, but Mycroft doesn’t appear to hear him, not when he’s watching James cross the room and turn on the television. On the screen, the same video that played on their phones seems even more crudely done. James stands in front of the telly as though hypnotized.

Mummy lets out a quiet gasp and raises a hand to her mouth. She’s wavering a little on her feet. John, who is closest to her, takes her arm and helps her to the sofa, at the same time demanding, “Turn it off, James.”

James does no such thing. Instead, he points at something on the screen, a clearly defined shape drawn to the right of Moriarty’s image, and turns dead eyes to Sherlock.

“Now do you see it?” he asks, his voice shaking a little.

When Sherlock doesn’t answer, John asks, “See what? The hat? Does it mean anything?”

“It’s not a hat,” Sherlock and James say together.

“It’s a boa,” Mummy adds more quietly.

John looks at all of them as though they’ve lost their minds. With a sigh, Mycroft walks over to the bookcase by the door, quickly finding what he’s looking for. He opens the signed collector edition of The Little Prince and holds it out for John to see the drawings.

“Not a hat,” he repeats, “but a boa that’s digesting an elephant. Do brush up on your classics, John.”

He then walks over to the television and shuts it off. Moriarty stops mid-question.

“Is it significant?” Mycroft asks James. “Did that drawing mean anything to your father?”

James smiles – if the way he bares his teeth can even be called a smile.

“You mean, over than the fact that he taught me to read with that book? And taught me French using it, too? And that video was sent on my birthday at… 3.15, you said? The time I was born? You tell me. Is _any_ of that significant?”

The question might be directed at Mycroft, but James looks at Sherlock as he finishes.

“It’s not from him,” Sherlock says firmly. “He’s dead.”

James’ smile-that-isn’t-a-smile-at-all widens a little more.

“May I be excused?” he asks again, and this time Sherlock lets him go. 

*

Half an hour later, they don’t know much more than what Mycroft first said. He’s received multiple text messages from his people, and while the broadcast transmission was finally stopped, no one quite understands how it took over every channel. The text message can’t be traced either.

Sherlock receives two messages during that time. The first, from Lestrade, asks if he’s seen the video, too. Sherlock ignores it. The second is from Molly and just as unprompted.

_I performed his autopsy myself. That video can’t be from him._

Sherlock sends a perfunctory _Thank you_ , but does not answer her second message, the one that asks, _How is James?_

“My driver will be here in ten minutes,” Mycroft says, pocketing his phone and helping himself to two fingers of scotch. “Are you coming back to London?”

Sherlock looks at John, who raises an eyebrow at him. Mummy went to rest soon after James left the room, leaving the three of them together. John hasn’t said much until now, flipping through the Little Prince book and answering a couple of texts Sherlock suspects were from Lestrade.

“We should go home, shouldn’t we?” John says.

Sherlock nods as he stands. “We’d better go pack.”

“Ten minutes,” Mycroft reminds them as they leave the room.

“Talk to James,” John says. “The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be.”

“Talk to him and say what? I have no idea what’s going on. The one thing I do know is that Moriarty is dead, and James doesn’t believe me.”

John presses a hand to Sherlock’s back and rubs gently.

“Just talk to him,” he says again.

Which is how Sherlock finds himself in front of his old room, not quite sure what he’s going to say but aware that he needs to say _something_. Before he knocks on the door, he can hear a voice coming from the bedroom; the same voice, the same four words that started this mess. As soon as he knocks, the voice fades away.

“Come in,” James calls out.

Sherlock pushes the door open and steps in. James is sitting on the floor with his back to the radiator, his knees raised in front of him, his arms around them. His phone is nowhere in sight. On the bed, his suitcase lies open next to his coat and scarf, and from the look of it everything he brought is packed neatly. Sherlock puts down the packages he brought up next to it.

“You left your presents downstairs,” he says rather needlessly. “You might have to rearrange your suitcase to make it all fit.”

James looks up at him but doesn’t reply. Instead, he asks, “We’re going back to London, aren’t we?”

Sherlock nods. He thinks of sitting on the bed, but it’s too crowded. He considers the chair at the desk, but finally sits down cross legged on the floor, facing James.

“We’re going back so I can find out who did this and prove to you it wasn’t _him_.”

James doesn’t react to the words. He observes Sherlock for a long time. Sherlock scrutinizes him right back; he hasn’t been crying, that’s at least something though Sherlock isn’t sure what it might mean. Earlier, he was wearing the jumper John got him for Christmas. Now, he’s back in his customary shirt and suit jacket, complete with a perfectly knotted tie. That, Sherlock knows, is not a good sign.

“Did you lie to me?” James finally asks, his tone perfectly calm. “Or did you really believe he was dead?”

“I have never lied to you,” Sherlock replies at once, his voice rising a little. “Not about that and not about anything else. And I don’t _believe_ he’s dead. I _know_ he’s dead. If you won’t take my word for it, maybe you’ll believe Molly.”

He pulls out his phone and brings up Molly’s message before holding the phone out. James glances at the screen but doesn’t take the phone, nor does he seem particularly convinced.

“If he fooled you,” he says with a small shrug, “he could have fooled her too.”

“He didn’t fool either of us,” Sherlock snaps, getting back to his feet. “He’s—”

“Dead,” James interrupts calmly. “Yes, you mentioned that. But you haven’t explained how a dead man managed to send a text message to millions of phones at the same time as he pirated every television channel in the country. All that on my _birthday_ , at the same time I was born, and with a drawing he knew I’d recognize in the background.”

“I can’t explain that. And I’m not going to try to explain it, because it’s impossible. Which means there’s another explanation, and I’ll start figuring that out as soon as we get home. Finish packing and come downstairs so you can say goodbye to your grandmother before we leave.”

He’s already at the door when James’ whisper stops him.

“It was nice, having her as a grandmother. And Mycroft as an uncle. And John as a friend. And you…”

He doesn’t finish, and presses his face against his raised knees. He doesn’t make a sound, but his shoulders shake a little. Sherlock’s throat feels too tight, but he manages to push a few words out.

“You still have us.”

James looks up. His eyes are too red, too shiny. And his smile is much too sad.

“I do now,” he says quietly. “But for how long?”

And as much as Sherlock _knows_ this isn’t Moriarty coming back, as much as he wants to reassure James before more tears are shed, he can’t seem to find another word to offer him.


	16. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer this time to make up for the last two chapters being shorter. With many thanks for reviews and kudos, all of them much appreciated.

The drive back to London would take place in complete silence if not for the three phone calls Mycroft receives. In the back of the limousine, his voice seems much too loud even if he mostly listens and gives short orders. Every time he hangs up, he looks at Sherlock and shakes his head. Nothing new. If Mycroft’s people with all their resources can’t trace the text message or video transmission, what chance does Sherlock have to do it himself?

The entire time, James looks out the window, his forehead pressed to the glass. Before they left, John asked Sherlock how James was taking it all, and Sherlock had no idea how to reply. He’s convinced his father is coming back, that much is clear, and Sherlock is forcibly reminded of all the times James asked if Sherlock was absolutely sure Moriarty was dead. Even now, Sherlock couldn’t say if the repeated question was a sign that James wanted him to be alive or an expression of his fear that he might be. It’s quite possible it’s a little bit of both.

Night is falling when they reach a Baker Street gleaming with fresh snow. To Sherlock’s disgruntled surprise, Mycroft gets out of the car with them and accompanies them upstairs. Anthea, who was waiting by the door bundled in a thick coat with a large envelope under her arm and her Blackberry in hand, comes up, too.

When James, having shrugged out of his coat, starts to go up to his room, Mycroft stops him with a word.

“Wait. I need your help with something.”

James doesn’t react. He leaves his suitcase in the hallway and enters the sitting room. His face, like his eyes, is blank.

“His help with what?” Sherlock asks, the words biting, as he drops his suitcase by the kitchen and starts pacing. He’s aware that John is giving him a worried look but he can’t seem to control himself.

Mycroft gestures at Anthea, who pockets the Blackberry and opens the envelope, pulling out a slim package and rubber gloves.

“That video has a lot of people demanding proof that Jim Moriarty is truly dead. Miss Hooper performed the identification at the time of his death, but it has been suggested we might perform a DNA analysis on his remains to check that the body is, in fact, his.” He nods at James, who hasn’t batted an eyelash at the implication that his father’s coffin is about to be dug out. “That’s where I need your assistance. We need a sample with which to compare the DNA we extract from the body. It’s just a scrape on the inside of your cheek, nothing painful at all.”

Anthea, gloves on her hands and armed with a small plastic brush much like a toothbrush, is already advancing toward James, whose eyes widen as he takes a stumbling step back.

“Stop,” Sherlock demands, striding forward to intercept Anthea.

She pauses, looking at Mycroft for instructions.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says dryly. “We don’t have time—”

“You don’t have time to even _ask_ if he’s okay with that?”

Mycroft frowns at him. “It’s not painful. Just—”

“Ask him,” John interrupts, and while his support isn’t needed, Sherlock is nonetheless glad for it – glad that James will see they both have his best interests at heart.

Mycroft’s mouth twists unhappily, but he does turn to address James, inclining his head in a shallow nod.

“Very well. James, would you mind terribly if Anthea collected a sample from your mouth?”

For a long moment, James remains silent, until he finally says, “John can do it.”

With barely a glance at Mycroft for confirmation, Anthea turns to John and wordlessly hands him the small brush as well as the long plastic tube that will serve to seal the sample. John takes them and approaches James, who still looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” John suggests, holding the brush out to him. “It’s easy. You just run it against the inside of your cheek a few times.”

Under John’s directions, James scrapes his own cheek, and soon the sealed tube is back in Anthea’s possession. She leaves at a nod from Mycroft, never having uttered a word.

“Thank you,” Mycroft says in a tone that makes it clear he thinks _they_ should be thanking _him_.

He’s about to follow Anthea when James blurts out, “When will you have the results?”

The tip of Mycroft’s new umbrella strikes the floor twice. “By tomorrow evening, I expect.”

“Will you tell me when you do?”

Mycroft hesitates and glances at Sherlock, though what his raised eyebrow is asking, Sherlock couldn’t say.

“Certainly. Good evening.”

As he leaves, John, Sherlock and James stand still for a few seconds. John breaks the silence first.

“Should we order out for dinner? What do you want, James? Thai? Chinese? You’re the birthday boy, you pick.”

With a shrug, James turns to the door. “Whatever you want. I’m not hungry.”

He leaves without another word. His steps are heavy, going up the staircase.

“Indian,” Sherlock says absently. “It’s his favorite.”

“Indian it is,” John says, and finds the take out menu in the designated drawer. While he calls in the order, Sherlock takes both their suitcases to the bedroom and starts unpacking his own, sorting what need to be washed and what can go back in his dresser. John soon joins him and they work from opposite sides of the bed. It’s domestic, even comfortable, and Sherlock could almost forget why they came home early – almost, but not quite, especially since John asks, “Any theories yet?”

“Just one,” Sherlock says, flipping his suitcase closed after pulling out of it the folio of music James gave him. “Whoever it is, it’s not Moriarty. He’s dead. If I know one thing to be true, it’s that.”

He’s about to walk out when something darkens John’s eyes and gives him pause. 

“What is it?” he asks when John looks away.

John shakes his head as though unwilling to respond, but he does anyway.

“Six months ago, if someone had asked me about you, I’d have told them you were dead, no hesitation or doubt about it.”

He doesn’t voice the corollary, but it hangs right there, between the two of them: he was wrong – and maybe Sherlock is too.

“I had help,” Sherlock says, more sharply than he meant to. “He was alone on that roof. You watched me from a distance, but I was an arm’s length away. How could he have faked a gunshot to the head from _that_ close?”

“No idea,” John says, and his tone is sharper, too, like it was the first time he visited Sherlock after his return, still angry at Sherlock’s deception but trying to move past it.

Clearly the topic is reawakening unpleasant memories for more than James.

Sherlock flees the room before he can make things worse, and enters the kitchen just in time to see Mrs. Hudson set a plate of biscuits on the table.

“Honestly, Sherlock,” she says, looking cross, “you should have told me.”

Sherlock’s first thought is that she knows who James’ father was – but no, how could she have found out?

“Told you what?” he asks blankly as John joins them in the kitchen.

She gives him a little eye roll. “That it’s James birthday, of course. And that you were coming home today. If I’d known, I’d have had time to bake a proper birthday cake, not just biscuits. Is he upstairs? Will you call him down so I can say happy birthday?”

Sherlock stares at her, his brow furrowed as he tries to figure out how—

“How did you know it’s his birthday?” John asks, echoing Sherlock’s thoughts.

Mrs. Hudson lets out a little laugh. “Why, the presents of course. Molly dropped hers early this morning and the other one came in the post.”

She’s barely finished speaking that Sherlock is already on the move, leaving the folio of music on the table and stepping into the hallway. He climbs the steps three at a time and can hear John asking urgently, “Where are they?”

“What, the presents? I took them up to his room when I did a spot of dusting. What…”

The door is half closed. Sherlock knocks once and doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing it open. James is sitting on his bed. The suitcase is still on the floor, untouched. Next to James, a brand new copy of Gray’s Anatomy sits on top of discarded wrapping paper; Molly’s gift. The second gift is on his lap: a large mound of white fluff he’s stroking absently. He looks up when Sherlock enters and gives him what’s barely the shadow of a smile.

“I think he forgot I’m too old for plush toys,” he says, turning the toy around to show it to Sherlock.

John comes in behind Sherlock. His hand curls around Sherlock’s forearm and squeezes gently.

“What is that,” John asks, a trace of relief in his voice, “a sheep? Is it from the Little Prince book again?”

Relief is the very last thing Sherlock would feel right now because yes, it is a sheep, and yes, it plays a fairly large role in James’ favorite childhood tale.

“Our last Christmas together,” James says quietly, his eyes back on the toy, “I told him I wanted a horse of my own. Or a sheep like the Little Prince. And on Christmas one of the gifts was a box with holes in it for breathing. I thought it’d be a real sheep, but it was a big plush toy. Bigger than this one and really fluffy. And there was a note around its neck that said…” He swallows hard and continues more quietly still. “That said if I was a good boy I’d get a horse for my tenth birthday. But Father went away before I turned ten.”

Sherlock remembers suddenly James’ expression – was it only a few hours ago? It feels like forever. When he realized what all his presents added up to, for a moment Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was happy or heartbroken. Now, he thinks he understands why.

“Was there a note with this one?” he asks after a beat of silence.

Hesitation flits over James’ features, and that’s an answer in itself. Coming closer to the bed, Sherlock holds out his hand. After another second of hesitation, James draws a small piece of paper from under the anatomy book and hands it over. As Sherlock unfolds it, John steps right next to him, reading alongside Sherlock.

_For Jamie,  
Happy Birthday_

James’ extended hand requests the return of the note. Sherlock, briefly, thinks of fingerprints, ink and paper analysis. But after they’ve manipulated the note, the fingerprints are probably theirs only, and he’ll be able to ask for the note again tomorrow, when James isn’t so high-strung – when they have definite proof the body in the ground is his father’s.

“Someone is playing a trick on you,” he says, giving him back the note. “A cruel trick. And we’re going to find out who it is.”

James slides the note inside the anatomy book. Without looking at Sherlock, he shakes his head.

“Who else but Father would know to call me Jamie? That was his nickname for me. He never used it in front of anyone, not the nannies and not Sebastian. It was just for us.”

And James himself hasn’t mentioned it until now, not in the five months they’ve lived together.

“Many people called James are nicknamed Jamie when they’re young,” John says in his most gentle voice. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

James’ eyes are hard obsidian when he looks back up. “No, you don’t want it to mean anything. That’s different.”

“Do _you_ want it to mean something?” John asks quietly.

Before James can answer, the doorbell rings. Food is there. While John goes to get it, Sherlock coaxes James downstairs, and with a little prodding he eats some of the take out, and a few of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits. But after that, he’s adamant that he’s tired and wants to go to bed, even though it’s still early.

While John settles down with one of the books he received at Christmas, Sherlock tries his hand at one of the new violin pieces he was offered, but his nerves are too raw for him to focus on the notes. Abandoning his violin on his chair, he sits down in front of his computer and loads the video again. In the past six hours, it’s apparently become the most watched video on the internet. Sherlock watches it with the sound off, one frame at a time, the image blown up to the full screen.

“Anything?” John asks a couple of hours later.

Sherlock grunts. “Other than frustration and a rising headache? No.”

“Then come to bed. Tomorrow Mycroft will tell us it’s not Moriarty, James will breathe better, and you won’t be so tense that you can’t think.”

It’s hard to argue with that logic; hard to argue at all when Sherlock realizes he wasn’t sure their sleeping arrangements would continue back in Baker Street and to hear John confirm it so naturally is as comforting as his arms when they wrap around Sherlock a little while later.

Soon, John’s breathing turns deep and regular as he falls asleep. Sherlock remains still against him, but he doesn’t close his eyes, nor does he try to reach for sleep. Instead, he replays in his mind that day on Bart’s roof, analyzing every moment as carefully as he observed every frame of the video. He comes out of that review with his certainty that Moriarty couldn’t have survived reinforced just a little more. He’s just tackled the next point he needs to examine – who could possibly know about James’ love for the Little Prince book, and the nickname his father had for him? – but before he can get very far, a frightened shriek tears through the flat, causing John to jerk awake behind him. Before Sherlock can disentangle himself from John’s embrace, James shouts John’s name again and bursts into the room.

“John! Wake up! He’s taken Sherlock! He’s taken…”

He freezes two steps in, and in the dim light coming in from the sitting room Sherlock can see him blink repeatedly, his mouth hanging open. John finally draws his arm away and both he and Sherlock sit up.

“Sorry,” James mumbles. “I thought… I came down and you weren’t there and I thought… Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock starts, but James isn’t listening. Retreating out of the room, he closes the door behind him with barely a whisper.

Sherlock sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I should…”

Should what? Talk to James? And – the question is always the same – say what? James is embarrassed; would it help for Sherlock to talk to him, or would it only make things worse?

“Yes, you should,” John says softly, rubbing the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Sherlock would like that, yes. It’d help him. But would it help James? He’s fond of John and has called him a friend, he holds his doctor skills in high regard, but most break-through have come when it was just him and Sherlock, with no witness to their talks. That’s why Sherlock declines John’s offer now and, sliding on a dressing gown over his pajamas, walks out of the bedroom.

He expected to have to go up to James’ room, but he finds him in the sitting room instead. He’s standing by the window, his violin and bow in either hand though they hang at his sides as he looks out into the street. Taken by the most insane, the most disturbing thought, Sherlock hurries to stand by him, looking out as well and seeing…

Nothing.

Nothing but snow and the tracks left by passing cars.

He lets out a shaky breath and mentally berates himself. He’s letting James’ fears and John’s doubts get to him.

“I’m sorry,” James murmurs, moving back to go sit in John’s chair. “I thought… I saw your violin on the chair and you always put it away so I thought… I didn’t know… I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He came down – presumably because he had trouble sleeping – saw the violin but no Sherlock, and immediately thought… what? ‘He’s taken Sherlock,’ he said when he burst into the room. There’s no need to ask who ‘he’ is in that scenario, but why would James think Sherlock had been kidnapped?

“You didn’t wake me,” he says. “But why are you awake so late? Bad dreams?”

James clutches the violin to his chest and looks anywhere but at Sherlock, even when Sherlock comes to sit across from him, picking up his own violin and bow from the armchair.

“John was sleeping. I woke him up for nothing.”

“He doesn’t mind, James. Neither of us minds. I’m sorry you were scared when I wasn’t there. If you can’t sleep and want company you can always come get me.” After a second, he clears his throat and adds, “Although you might want to knock next time.”

James still isn’t looking at him. He’s running a finger along the strings of his violin, his lips pinched tightly together. 

“Do you want to practice?” Sherlock asks, just to say something. 

When he plucks two short notes from his violin, James looks up, frowning.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he says.

Sherlock shrugs. “So?”

A tiny smile flutters on James’ lips, there and gone in the time of a heartbeat.

“You know,” he murmurs, “at first I only wanted to learn because that’s what you play but I like it, now. Almost as much as I like the piano.”

Sherlock suspected the first part, but he’s glad to hear the second.

“Well, you’re fairly good at it. With more practice you’ll become excellent.”

The smile returns, just as briefly. James slides off the armchair and takes the violin to the open case on the desk. Sherlock turns to watch him tuck it away carefully.

“I hope he’ll let me keep playing it,” James whispers, so softly Sherlock isn’t sure the words were meant for him.

“James,” he sighs, but doesn’t have time to add anything else.

“Why did he have to come back now?” James blurts out, his hands pressed flat to the top of the violin case. “I waited for him for _three years_ and he never came, and now that I’ve got a home and… and…” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “Now he comes back.”

“It’s not him,” Sherlock says, standing as though it’ll give those too-often repeated words more weight and credibility. “It _can’t_ be him.”

James doesn’t even acknowledge his protest. “I’ll go back to bed now. Thank you for staying up with me for a bit.”

He starts toward the door, his shoulders rounded and heavy. Has Sherlock said anything at all that might help him sleep better? He strongly doubts it.

“Do you want me to play for you?” he says hurriedly before James leaves the room.

Standing on the threshold, James looks back and shakes his head. “It’s okay. You can go back to sleep.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock persists. “I will never mind playing for you.”

James shakes his head again. “Thank you. But I’m thirteen, now. I can’t keep pretending I’m not too old for lullabies. Good night.”

“Good night.”

As James retreats back to his room, Sherlock starts playing anyway, turning to Berlioz after deciding that this isn’t a night for Bach. He plays for an hour or so before the chime of his phone on the desk distracts him and he lowers his bow.

The text message chills him down to his bones.

_The coffin is empty.  
MH_


	17. Not Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you follow my tumblr, you know my mind isn't much on writing these days. Hopefully it doesn't show too much in this chapter.
> 
> ~
> 
> Gratefully dedicated to Shawna

As light starts to fill the sitting room – brighter than usual; sunlight reflecting off the snow in the street and flooding in – Sherlock can hear his bedroom door opening and quiet steps moving through the flat. He takes in the input but doesn’t react to it, keeping his fingers joined together under his chin and his mind churning through the same facts and theories he’s been examining all night. It’s useless at this point and he knows it. He needs more data, and until he gets it there will be no epiphany to be had, no sudden insight that clears up everything. Still, useless or not, what else can he do?

“You didn’t come back to bed,” John’s voice suddenly says from above Sherlock.

He blinks a few times, until his gaze focuses on John’s slight frown.

 _Not good_ , echoes in his mind. It’s been a while since he heard the reminder. And it’s the first time he hears John’s memory while John is standing right in front of him.

“Err…”

Another blink, and he sits up. John takes a step back. His arms are by his side, but held there so rigidly that it’s obvious he’s trying his best not to cross them. Dark circles line his eyes; he didn’t sleep much, if at all. As early as it is, he’s already dressed for the day, bundled in an oatmeal-colored jumper that makes Sherlock think of home almost as much as being in 221B does. Something aches inside him. It’s as though John is trying to cling to normality – as though he thinks he _needs_ to cling to normality or watch the quiet life they’ve been building drift away.

“I thought you’d come back once you were done talking to him,” John continues, frost edging his words. “Or when you were done playing the violin. Even in the middle of the night would have been nice, instead of you sleeping out here by yourself.”

Sherlock shivers a little, wishing he’d thought of lighting a fire. Caught in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the chill that had descended on the room. Or maybe that’s just John’s presence.

“I wasn’t sleeping if that’s any consolation.”

John rolls his eyes at him and turns away, approaching the fireplace and putting a knee down in front of it.

“Of course,” he mutters under his breath as he works on getting some heat into the room. “Of course you weren’t sleeping. Why am I even surprised?”

The conflict between words and actions, annoyance yielding to caretaking instincts, is an odd thing to witness, and Sherlock isn’t quite sure how to respond to it.

“John,” he starts, figuring he can offer an apology and see if that’s enough, but he doesn’t get a chance to go that far.

John turns back to him, and now his arms do cross as he frowns even more deeply.

“Just… don’t let him ruin everything, okay? He never brings the best out of… out of anyone.”

For a moment, Sherlock is sure John means James, and it makes no sense whatsoever. And then he gets it, and frowns right back at John.

“By ‘him’ you mean Moriarty,” he says flatly. “Last night you agreed it couldn’t be him, but now you believe a dead man is behind what has been happening. I didn’t realize you believe in ghosts, John. How very pedestrian of you.”

John’s face flushes, though Sherlock couldn’t say if it’s from anger or embarrassment.

“Well, I wasn’t sleeping either,” he says coolly. “And that gave me a lot of time to look at it from every angle. I’m still hoping Mycroft will give us proof it’s not him but let’s be honest here. James is right. Everything points—”

“Everything was _set up_ to point toward one conclusion,” Sherlock cuts in, frustration causing his voice to rise. “There’s only one thing we do know for sure. Whoever is behind all this is clever and has access to impressive resources. That’s it. Those are the _facts_.”

“What about everything he knows about James? His birthday, his nickname, the book? The simple fact that he lives here? How do you explain all that?”

Scrubbing both hands furiously through his hair, Sherlock groans.

“Don’t be an idiot, John. His birthday is on his birth certificate. Anyone with the kind of resources the person we’re dealing with has could find that out. His living here is hardly a secret. It even was in the press a few months back. You said yourself the nickname is common, and the book has been read by children for more than fifty years. _I_ read it when I was a kid for that matter. None of it means anything.”

Dropping his arms, John sighs and sits in his chair, his body angled toward Sherlock.

“Each of these things on its own means nothing,” he agrees, his tone verging back toward neutrality. “But all of them together? Come on, Sherlock. You have to admit that’s too many coincidences.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “There’s no such thing as coincidences. All of it was perfectly orchestrated to make us think this is Moriarty. And it’s working on both you and James.”

And it’ll be even harder to convince them otherwise when they hear about the coffin. That’s why Sherlock needs to talk John out of that nonsense now.

Standing from the sofa, he walks around the coffee table to crouch by John, keeping his balance with a hand on the arm of the chair.

“You believed me when the world thought I was a fraud,” he says quietly. “When everything gave you a reason to distrust me, you still believed me. When you thought me dead, you still believed me. I’m asking you to believe me now. I can prove it’s a prank. I can find out who’s behind all this. I can and will do it with or without you. But it’ll be a lot easier if I have you at my side.”

His throat feels oddly tight as he finishes, and it stays that way as John observes him, dark eyes intent, until he finally closes them, takes a deep breath, and nods.

“Okay,” John says, looking at Sherlock almost solemnly. “You say it’s not him, I believe you. It’s not him. And I’ll do what I can to help you prove it.”

Relief crashes over Sherlock so strongly that he wavers a little and has to stand or find himself in the rather undignified position of falling on his arse. His course of action would have been the same with or without John’s support, but he’s glad, very glad he doesn’t have to do this without him.

On a whim, he leans down and presses his mouth to John’s, meaning to keep the kiss quick and chaste. But John welcomes it and deepens it with an eagerness bordering on desperation. His hands rise, tangle in Sherlock’s t-shirt and pull him forward, and, Sherlock isn’t exactly sure how it happens but he suddenly finds himself on the chair, his knees wedged on either side of John’s thighs, his fingers clenched over John’s jumper, his mouth thoroughly, even expertly plundered. His eyes have closed of their own accord and it’s all he can do not to make noises or let his hips buck forward.

Part of his mind clamors that the timing is terrible, that they have better things to do right now than to indulge in the demands of their bodies. He tells his mind to shut the hell up and tries to stop thinking. It’s just a few moments, stolen before the day truly begins; a reminder that Sherlock isn’t alone for this, the way he was when he confronted Moriarty. Whoever is hiding in the shadow this time will regret ever deciding to play games with him – with them.

Little by little, the fierceness of the kiss tapers off. Soon, their mouths part, but Sherlock is loath to break off the contact quite yet and he rests his forehead against John’s, forcing his breathing to slow down.

“So,” John says, his voice pitched low. “You’ve got a plan. Care to tell me what it is?”

With some difficulty, Sherlock pushes himself off John and back onto his feet.

“It starts with me taking a shower,” he says with a thin smile. “Tea would be lovely when I’m done.”

John snorts quietly but doesn’t press him any further.

When Sherlock emerges from his bedroom a little while later, dressed, his hair still a little damp and his phone in his hand, there is, as requested, tea. There’s also toast on the table, and the jars of jam and honey they acquired – was it only yesterday? It feels like much more time than that.

There is also, seated stiffly in Sherlock’s chair, a teenager dressed in a crisp suit and tie, his hands resting flat on his thighs, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. All Sherlock needs is a look at the table, John’s tight smile and James’ blank expression to know he has refused breakfast.

“You need to change,” Sherlock says without raising his voice as he pours himself a mug of tea. “You’ll ruin that suit if you wear it to ride.”

He has time to count to six before James responds. He doesn’t move, but his eyes find Sherlock across the room. He sounds confused.

“Ride? Today? I’m not going to ride.”

Picking up on what Sherlock is doing, John opens the untouched blueberry jar and starts to slather jam on a piece of toast.

“That’s an excellent idea,” he says, ostensibly to Sherlock but loud enough for James to hear. “School starts in less than a week and he’ll only have weekends to go to the centre after that. Depending on how much homework he gets, not even that.”

“Or we might take cases on weekends,” Sherlock muses aloud in between sips of tea.

“School?” James’ voice is a little shriller suddenly. He stands and comes to stand by the kitchen door. His eyes, wide and blinking repeatedly, go back and forth between Sherlock and John. “Cases? What are you talking about? I’m not going to go to school, or… or… on cases with you. Or _riding _!”__

__Picking up the empty mug on the table, Sherlock fills it then sets it down again in front of the plate of toast John just pushed into place across the empty chair._ _

__“Why wouldn’t you?” he asks conversationally. “And you might want to sit down and get to it, the car will pick us up in twenty minutes.”_ _

__James shakes his head slowly, considering them as though they’ve both lost their minds._ _

__“But… but… I can’t go riding! I just can’t!”_ _

__“Don’t you want to?” John asks, one eyebrow raised._ _

__“What does it matter what I want?” James asks, a little too loudly. “Don’t you understand what’s going on? Don’t you see everything has changed?”_ _

__Walking around the table, Sherlock draws the empty chair away, an invitation to sit._ _

__“What I understand,” he says slowly, “is that someone is trying very hard to make us believe certain things and react in a certain way. I know that you have your idea who that is. You know that I think you’re wrong. But that’s not the point right now. The point is that we’re not going to let whoever it is dictate what we do or not. Before it all started, you were excited to go riding. Correct?”_ _

__James’ mouth opens, then closes without a sound. He nods._ _

__“Do you still want to?”_ _

__It takes a few seconds, but eventually James nods again, then steps forward and sits in front of his cooling breakfast. Standing behind him, Sherlock looks at John. When he smiles, John smiles back. It’s such a small thing, it shouldn’t feel like a victory, but it does._ _

__*_ _

__“You’re not staying?”_ _

__It’s not panic in James’ voice, but it’s a close thing. He’s seemed more relaxed since they arrived at the riding centre, even allowing just a hint of excitement to peek through when an attendant showed them around the facilities and pointed out the map of the (expansive) riding grounds. But Sherlock’s announcement that they’ll pick him up at noon to go to lunch ruins all that._ _

__“You’ll be fine,” Sherlock says, but he can tell it’s not going to be enough. He catches John’s eyes and glances meaningfully at the attendant. While John distracts the woman, Sherlock draws James a small distance away and leans down, speaking quietly so they won’t be overheard._ _

__“You’re worried someone might kidnap you,” he says calmly, and it’s not a question._ _

__James doesn’t even try to deny it. “Aren’t you?” he asks._ _

__Sherlock shakes his head. “Even if John and I stayed here, he doesn’t know how to ride and I haven’t been on a horse since I was your age. We’d only ruin your fun. Whereas your uncle’s people are excellent riders, excellent at pretending they’re not protecting someone, and excellent at thwarting such things as kidnappings.”_ _

__James’ eyes dart around them, although Sherlock doubts he’ll pick up on his escort, not until they’re out and riding with no one else around. Sherlock himself only positively identified two, and he knows there have to be two more lurking somewhere._ _

__“So you _are_ worried,” James whispers. “And you still want me to go out where he could snatch me? Why? We could have just stayed home.”_ _

__“I told you. We’re not letting anyone dictate what we do or not. You’re here to have fun. Have I considered the possibility that someone might attempt to snatch you? Yes. I have. Which is why you’ll have an escort. Just like I considered the possibility that you might fall, which is why you’re wearing this.”_ _

__He flicks a finger at the edge of the hat already secured onto James’ head._ _

__“I never fall,” James says, affronted._ _

__Sherlock nods. “Good. And you won’t be kidnapped either. We’ll be back at noon. Try to enjoy yourself. All right?”_ _

__It takes a long time before James mutters a quiet, “All right,” quickly followed by an even quieter, “Thank you.”_ _

__They stay long enough to watch James choose a horse, a tall, lean bay that strikes the ground with its front hooves twice before starting at a gallop under James’ encouragements despite the attendant’s reminders to take things slow since he hasn’t ridden in a long time._ _

__“Won’t he be cold?” John asks as they watch him go, two riders taking off at the same time in the same vague direction._ _

__“He’ll be fine,” Sherlock says absently. “The snow’s already melting. Come on, we’ve got a lot to do before noon.”_ _

__They stride out of the centre together and Sherlock hails a passing cab. Mycroft’s car will stay there; the driver is bodyguard #5._ _

__“A lot to do like what?” John asks._ _

__“Like figuring out why Moriarty’s coffin was empty,” Sherlock says as he climbs in._ _

__When John doesn’t follow at once, Sherlock glances at him. He stands by the cab’s open door, one fist clenched at his side. He stares at Sherlock long enough for the cabbie to start protesting then finally climbs in._ _

__“How long have you known about that?” he asks darkly._ _

__“Since last night.”_ _

__“And you didn’t tell me?”_ _

__“When you already believed it was _him_? No. I didn’t see the point of it.”_ _

__John takes in a hissing breath through his teeth. “Not good, Sherlock,” he mutters. “Not good at all.”_ _

__Sherlock can’t think of anything to reply. All he hopes is that, before noon, he can come up with a good explanation for that empty coffin, both to appease John and to quell James’ fears before they can expand a little more._ _


	18. No Way In Hell

As the cab takes them to the graveyard, John doesn’t say a single word, but Sherlock could swear he can hear the agitated rumble of his thoughts. It’s rather annoying. And distracting. And definitely not conducive to Sherlock figuring out anything. So when they get out of the cab, he stands still on the sidewalk and waits for John to look at him.

“I can’t work like this,” he says, burying his hands in his pockets. “Get it out, shout at me if you must, or do whatever you need to do to move on already.”

John’s features tighten, as do his fists on either side of him. Sherlock is forcibly reminded of that day in John’s house, a few months ago, when he realized that coming back wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought. The difference is, he never believed having this kind of relationship with anyone would be easy. But John doesn’t react now as he did then. Instead, he takes in a deep breath, opens his hands and sighs.

“Not even two hours ago you asked me to believe you,” he says slowly, his eyes pinning Sherlock in place. “You asked me to trust you. To put my faith in you. And I’ve got no issue with that, Sherlock. Any help I can give you, it’s yours. Always was, from the first day we met.”

Sherlock nods warily but doesn’t say anything yet. He can feel there’s more coming.

“But,” John says very predictably, “trust has to go both ways. I want your promise you’re not going to hide things from me. Or send me on a fool’s errand while you rush into danger alone.”

It’s easy enough to figure out where these two very specific demands come from, and Sherlock bristles.

“You’re acting like this is a repeat of what happened three years ago,” he complains. “You do need to let that go, John. I apologized. I explained—”

“And I accepted your apology,” John cuts in with a shake of his head. “When have I done anything to prove I’m still hung up on that? I understand why you did it. I’m never going to be happy about the way you dealt with that situation, but in the end you came back and that’s what matters to me. The topic is closed as far as I’m concerned. But I do know you. How many times have I watched you rush straight into danger without so much as a warning or explanation? How many times have you kept information about a case to yourself for one reason or another? Including this morning, apparently. And I’m telling you, we can’t work like that anymore. Not if we’re…”

For the first time, he hesitates, and his voice softens noticeably when he finishes with, “Partners.”

When the demand for a promise is framed in that light, it suddenly seems a lot more reasonable, and Sherlock can’t think of a reason to refuse. It’s not that he wants to drag John into danger with him, but after three years of fighting alone, having back-up – having _John_ as back-up – feels at the same time like a luxury and a necessity.

“I won’t withhold information from you,” Sherlock says, sounding rather solemn even to his own ears. “And I will not run off into danger without inviting you along.” After a brief pause, he adds, “Although we’ll need to find you a gun if danger appears likely. There isn’t much of a point of having you as back-up without one.”

Chuckling, John rolls his eyes. “Thanks. Nice to know I’m appreciated.”

His voice is dry, but there’s something in his eyes, a softness that says Sherlock’s poorly-worded addendum didn’t offend him. What he should have said is, _there isn’t much of a point of having you as back-up if I’m going to worry you can’t protect yourself, and never mind protecting me_. He doesn’t get to correct himself, though, not when John crosses the short distance that separates them and raises a hand, curling it at the back of Sherlock’s neck to draw him down toward John’s lips. The kiss is brief, too brief for Sherlock to even think of objecting that this isn’t the right time at all for this; just a chaste press of lips on lips, and already John is dropping his hand and pulling away.

“Shall we?” he asks, tilting his head toward the graveyard.

Sherlock gives him a grim smile and they pass the gates together.

The graveyard stands right outside London proper. As they walk in, Sherlock glances at a few tombstones they pass and can’t help but think that nothing looks more like a cemetery than another cemetery. Behind the few patches of snow that are still melting, there really aren’t any distinguishing features here, and it could just as well be—

He almost misses a step when the thought intrudes in his mind.

It could just as well be the cemetery where Mary was buried.

How did he not think of this earlier? He berates himself and throws John a sideways look, wondering if being here is painful for him. His face is set in a neutral expression, and the only thing that transpires might be determination.

Still, Sherlock should have thought of that. He’s supposed to take care of John’s mental well-being, isn’t he? Isn’t that what people in relationships do? John has certainly been trying to take care of him – then again, he used to do that long before sharing a bed became something they did.

Sherlock stops abruptly on the gravel-covered path and closes his eyes.

This just won’t do. He can’t go on letting his mind ramble about John and relationships and sharing a bed and _John_ when he has work to do. Important work. A matter of life and death, quite literally.

“Sherlock?” John asks, worry filling the word. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock shakes his head and keeps his eyes closed. Ruthlessly, he sweeps every possible distraction to a corner of his mind and clears his thoughts.

“Sherlock? You’re beginning to scare me.”

John’s fingers brush against Sherlock’s arm and he moves back, out of John’s touch.

“Sorry,” he mutters as he opens his eyes again, and he means it both for refusing that touch and for worrying John. “Just trying to clear my mind.”

“Clear it from what?” John asks, though he immediately answers his own question. “Oh. Clear it from me, huh?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I do seem to spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about you. It makes it difficult to focus on other things.”

His lips crooked into a half smile, John looks away. “That might be one of the sweetest things you ever said to me, you know. I’ll try not to be too distracting.” He points to something in the distance. “Is that where we’re headed?”

Looking at what he’s pointing at, Sherlock nods. The large white tent must have been erected to protect the grave from the snow. They walk faster now that their destination is in sight, and if John remains close, his arm doesn’t brush against Sherlock’s anymore as it did earlier.

A solitary guard stands by the tent’s entrance. He straightens up a little as they approach, his posture less than engaging, but seems to relaxes ever so slightly when he takes a good look at them.

“Mr. Holmes,” he says. “Your brother told us to expect you and Doctor Watson. Please do come in.”

With that, he draws the flap that covers the opening to the side, leaving them free to enter. The smell of putrefaction wafts out, unmistakable and gag-inducing. Sherlock coughs a couple of times, as does John, and they walk in further.

The tent is large enough that it covers not only the gaping hole in the ground and the mound of earth next to it but also five other graves. Strong spotlights emit a loud buzz of electricity and cast a harsh light over everything – including the closed casket resting on the edge of the grave and the man in a complete hazmat suit leaning against one of the poles holding the tent up. He looks up from his clipboard and tugs off the mask covering his face.

“Mr. Holmes. Glad to see you.” He sounds anything but glad. “As I told your brother, there really was no need for you to come in person. We’ve already taken all the samples we need, and duplicates have been sent to Bart’s as instructed.”

“Samples of what?” John asks. “Wasn’t the coffin empty? And if it was, what’s this smell anyway?”

“There was no body in the coffin when we opened it,” the man confirms. “However, signs of putrefaction and the liquids associated with it were present. If you want to have a look, be my guest.”

His sneer irks Sherlock profoundly – and John too, it seems.

“I’ll do that, yes,” John says, and Sherlock knows that voice, he knows it quite well indeed. The man in front of them isn’t from the military – pathologist; works in a big hospital in London but occasionally answers the call of Queen and country and is quite proud of it; not so happy with his current assignment however. Still, trained soldier or not, he appears to stand a little straighter suddenly and promptly hands out the masks and gloves John requests for Sherlock and himself.

When John lifts the lid, Sherlock is standing next to him, close enough to note that his hands are perfectly steady. A new burst of putrid smell envelops them, but it’s nothing next to the sight. There’s no body in there, no, but it’s all too clear that there _was_ a body for some time.

“Any way to tell when the corpse was removed?” Sherlock asks as John lowers the lid again.

John shakes his head. “Putrefaction and the liquefaction of internal organs depend on a lot of things. The humidity inside the coffin, the temperature fluctuations, whether the body was embalmed and with what… I couldn’t tell.”

He throws an oblique look to Unhappy Pathologist, who responds rather sulkily.

“The records indicate that it was indeed embalmed, which means there is no intact DNA for us to recover. I estimate whoever was in that coffin stayed there for at least a year, but it’s just a guess.”

As he turns to the mound of earth, Sherlock barely refrains from scoffing. A guess? Is that all Mycroft’s best people can provide?

Fifteen minutes later, he has much better than a guess. He has a few hardly decomposed autumn leaves that were mixed in the earth that covered the coffin. Which can only mean one thing: it was dug up this fall, a few weeks ago at the most, and that is how the leaves ended up mixed in the earth. And then, the patch of grass that had been cut off was carefully put back into place to hide anyone had dug here at all.

Weeks. Someone has been planning all this for weeks. It’s really not much of a surprise.

On their way out, they stop to talk to the graveyard’s attendant, an aging man that doesn’t remember anything out of the ordinary in the past few weeks.

“But you know,” he says in a slightly wavering voice, “that corner over there… I try not to look too closely about what happens there. I was told long ago that it’d be better for my health if I didn’t ask about unmarked graves and burials in the middle of the night.”

They walk for a while after coming out of the graveyard; a bit of fresh air, even cold December air, will do both their noses and clothes some good.

“Any theories?” John asks eventually. He’s been very quiet since they walked out of the tent.

“Nothing concrete,” Sherlock admits. “Except for the fact that our culprit seems to have planned every detail and anticipated that we’d first go to the coffin.”

What else did he – or she, although he is statistically more likely – anticipate? What will be his next move?

“Are we off to Bart’s? Are you going to look at those samples?”

Sherlock glances at his watch. They have an hour until noon; not enough to really get into any sort of analysis, but even if there was time, Sherlock would still push it back. He told James they wouldn’t let anyone dictate what they do, he all but promised James would be safe, but he’d suddenly feel a lot better if he could see James and know he’s all right.

“No. Let’s go get James.”

“Are you going to tell him about all this?”

The question gives Sherlock pause. He’s been going back and forth about it ever since he received Mycroft’s text last night.

“Should I?” he finally asks. “We don’t have any answers, just more questions. We don’t know who opened that coffin and retrieved the body, we don’t know why, or when exactly, or how they knew which unmarked grave to open.”

Which was the purpose of his call to Mycroft when they walked out of the tent – an actual call, although brief and tense. Mycroft promised to find out who precisely had access to that information, but it couldn’t have been that many people, could it? The burial place of criminals and enemies of the state whose bodies are in custody of the government is not, as such, a highly guarded secret, but it shouldn’t be accessible to just about anyone either.

“Yes, you should tell him,” John says quietly. “If you keep things from him, it’ll come out, sooner or later. Either he’ll figure it out or you’ll have to admit you weren’t completely truthful. I think that’d be the best way to lose his trust.”

Sherlock sighs. “I know,” he mutters. “But I also know this will only confirm his certainty that his father is alive.”

John doesn’t reply. There isn’t much to say. It’s not until they’re at the riding centre, in the observation room that looks over the grounds and from which they can watch a tiny figure easily recognizable as James guiding his horse through an obstacle course, that John picks up the discussion again.

“Do you think he wants him to be alive?” he asks. “At times, he looks like he does want it. And at times the mere thought seems to terrify him.”

“Probably because both things are true,” Sherlock says, never taking his eyes off James – just like the two, no, three riders loosely circling around him.

He isn’t sure why John’s hand, settling in the center of his back, makes him relax a little, but it does. 

How odd to find comfort in such a small gesture.

How wonderful of John to offer it, too.

*

They have lunch at a Chinese restaurant just a few streets from the centre. The place is tiny, and James’ excited voice seems to fill it as he recounts his riding time in each small detail, forgetting to eat as he talks of the horse as though he’d ridden the bay dozens of times before rather than a mere three and a half hours. John looks a little amused by James’ enthusiasm, though a trace of worry tightens his eyes. He must know, like Sherlock does, that once James gets to the end of his little tale, he’ll start asking questions.

And indeed, it doesn’t miss.

“So, did you go help Mycroft’s people like you said?” he finally asks, all at once more subdued.

Sherlock pushes the plate he barely touched away from him and ignores John’s pointed frown; he couldn’t eat even if he tried to.

“We went there, yes,” he says. “Finish eating. We’ll tell you about it when we get home. A restaurant is no place to have this conversation.”

It’s no surprise when James lowers his chopsticks and announces he’s not hungry anymore.

It is, however, when John stops Sherlock from asking take out boxes for their food.

“No,” he says, his tone of voice suffering no contradiction. “We’re going to finish our meal. All three of us. No ‘I’m not hungry’ or ‘I don’t eat when I’m on a case’. No leaving until these plates are empty. Get to it.”

James looks at Sherlock, and if the ‘Do I have to?’ remains unvoiced, it’s right there in his eyes. Sherlock gives the same look to John, only to receive a deep frown in reply – along with a light kick to his shin under the table and the flicker of a glance toward James. This, too, Sherlock can interpret. He’s supposed to set a good example for James. Who ever knew being a parent could be such a chore?

With an exaggerated sigh, Sherlock draws his plate closer to him again and takes a bite of food. After a few seconds, James sighs as well and does the same. John has rarely looked so smug.

It’s close to an hour later when they sit down together in 221b’s sitting room. On the sofa, his legs crossed and the Union Jack pillow clutched to his chest, James wait for an answer to the question he asked back at the restaurant. He doesn’t react at all when Sherlock tells him the body buried in that coffin was removed recently. He still doesn’t say a thing when John adds that they probably won’t be able to tell whose body it was. Only when they’re done does he nod, just once, and asks, “So… What are you going to do when he comes to get me?”

Sherlock stops his pacing. His knees seem to fold of their own accord, and quite luckily his armchair is there to welcome him. It’s not so much the question that knocked the wind out of him but the sense of absolute resignation coming off James. He doesn’t just fear his father is alive, or hope it; he _believes_ it, the same way people believe at night the sun will rise again come morning.

“ _He_ ’s not going to come get you because _he_ is dead,” Sherlock says, sick and tired of repeating himself.

“I don’t want him to hurt you,” James says, ignoring him. “Either of you. So when he comes to get me, you should…” He swallows hard. “You should let him. It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. And I’ll tell him you were both nice to me so he won’t hurt you. I’ll make sure he doesn’t, I promise.”

It takes Sherlock every ounce of self-restraint he possesses not to raise his voice, but he can’t quite keep a cutting edge out of it.

“How could you promise that,” he asks getting back to his feet, “when you couldn’t ever stop him from hurting you? And no, it’s not okay. Even supposing it was him, which it’s _not_ , do you really think I’d let you go like that? Do you honestly believe I could even think of doing that?”

John stands, and that hand, that marvelous hand, returns to Sherlock’s back.

“Whoever they are, they’re not getting you,” John says quietly.

James only clutches the pillow more tightly. “No, whoever they are they’re not getting to you because of me.”

“We’re supposed to protect you,” Sherlock says, right on the edge of snapping. “Not the other way around.”

James gives him the faintest of smiles. “Says who?”

They could argue about this all day, Sherlock realizes, and get absolutely nowhere. And he has better things to do than try to convince James without proof when he could, in fact, try to get such a proof. 

“I’m going to Bart’s,” he says sharply, already stepping toward the door. “I’ll text to say when I’ll be back.”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t run off alone,” John says behind him, his voice as mild as a Russian winter.

Wincing, Sherlock glances back. “It’s just Bart’s,” he says. “No danger there. And I’ll work better if I’m alone.”

He expects John to argue the point and is ready to argue right back, but instead John crosses the room and offers him another brief kiss and a whisper.

“Text me. And don’t break your promise.”

Sherlock nods and again starts for the door, only to be stopped again, this time by James.

“Sherlock?”

When he glances back at James, Sherlock can see a dozen things in his eyes, confusion, fear and regret being only a few of them. None of them rises to his lips, however, and after a handful of seconds, all he says is, “Say hello to Molly for me?”

It’s not what he meant to say, but Sherlock simply nods again and leaves. He pauses in the street, right in front of the door, his gaze sweeping around, searching, noticing.

Satisfied that he’s not leaving James and John on their own, he hails a cab.

No one is coming to get James, he tells himself repeatedly on his way to Bart’s. No one, let alone Jim Moriarty. And even if they did, there is no way in hell Sherlock would let them have his son.


	19. Who Knew?

By the time Sherlock gets to Bart’s, the sun has retreated behind a thick cover of clouds. The hospital looks like a slab of cold marble under the gray skies, and London like a graveyard. Sherlock knows recent experiences are coloring his thoughts and he makes an effort to clear his head before he walks in. It’s relatively easier to school his mind when John and James aren’t nearby, something he needs to learn to deal with, and fast.

As he expected, the samples were addressed to him in the care of Molly, and she loses no time retrieving them from cold storage for him. As he looks at the few vials and figures out where to start, he’s aware that he’s unlikely to achieve much more than establish the proof a human corpse started decomposing in that coffin. He has to do something, though. He can’t just stay home and wait for information to fall in his lap.

Having already shrugged out of his coat and jacket, he puts on a mask and gloves and is about to get to the first sample when he realizes that Molly is still there, wringing her hands, nervousness practically radiating from her. 

When he raises an eyebrow at her, she finally blurts out what has clearly been on the tip of her tongue ever since he walked in.

“So… How’s James? I guess it was a shock for him, seeing that video. Or… did he see it?”

“He did see it,” Sherlock says as he considers the closed vial in his hands and the brownish sludge inside it. “And he’s convinced his father has come back from the grave. It doesn’t matter what I say, he refuses to believe Jim Moriarty is dead.”

He’s not sure why he’s saying as much to Molly. It’s not as though she can do anything about this. Still, she’s one of the few people who know who James is exactly. She helped Sherlock, three years ago. And she seems to be the only person other than him who has never had doubts about Moriarty’s death.

“Would you like me to talk to him?” she asks in a small voice.

The offer doesn’t surprise him as much as the fact that he actually considers saying yes – considers using James’ little crush on Molly. His shake of head is an answer to her suggestion as well as his own hesitation. James’ emotions are fragile enough at the moment without Sherlock trying to manipulate them, and him.

“I showed him your text. It didn’t help. He needs a concrete proof. That’s what I’m trying to find here.”

He says it pointedly enough that she all but jumps and makes an excuse about needing to leave. Pity; he could have used an extra pair of hands.

The only good thing about the next few hours is that they pass quickly, with Sherlock too busy to do more than glance at his phone when a text message chimes in.

_James has been playing the violin almost non stop since you left. Pretty sure he’s worried about you._

Sherlock wonders if it’s only James who is worried. He doesn’t reply to John; he has nothing new to report.

A second text message comes in just as, frustrated, he’s about to give up on getting anything useful out of the samples he’s been analyzing. This one is from Lestrade. It promises him a mutilated dead body, which would be enough to intrigue him when he needs _something_ to occupy his mind before he starts to consider things that are blatantly impossible. When Lestrade sends him the address, though, it seems vaguely familiar, and an odd feeling tightens the pit of his stomach.

The decision is easy to make. He’s already in a cab when he texts John.

_Lestrade is in need of someone with a brain. It shouldn’t take very long.  
SH_

As expected, John’s reply is prompt and to the point.

_Address?_

Sherlock grimaces. He’s probably going to pay for this later one way or another, but he can hardly invoke a bad feeling to request they stay home.

_According to Lestrade this one isn’t pretty. Better if I look at it on my own.  
SH_

There is no answer, but as he watches darkness slowly envelop London, Sherlock isn’t reassured; far from it. 

When he gets there, Sherlock’s vague feeling solidifies into certainty, and if he is glad when he approaches the warehouse that James isn’t here, he is even more so when he steps inside. Lestrade greets him with a few grim words and leads him toward the back of the building.

An eerie sense of déjà vu settles over Sherlock. The last time he was here, his insides were twisting just as they are now, but back then it was from the all-consuming hope that this might be the end of his journey, while tonight it’s something very much like dread that tries to consume him.

Why is it that when he opened up to some feelings others started creeping in, too?

The raised platform is just as Sherlock remembers it, and for a second his eyes play a trick on him and he could almost swears he can see a slight form up there, hiding, observing.

The body isn’t exactly where Sherlock let it fall, but it’s a close thing. He knows, before he is close enough to get a good look, whose body it is, just like he knows there’s another empty coffin somewhere in a graveyard plot owned by the government. The smell is a giveaway long before he reaches it; the same smell he’s been dealing with all day: decay.

“He’s been found today but I don’t need you to tell me he died a while ago,” Lestrade says as he accompanies Sherlock to the body. He’s holding a handkerchief to his mouth and nose.

Sherlock could in fact tell him exactly when Sebastian Moran died, how, and at whose hands, but he doesn’t think Lestrade would be all that impressed. Instead, he keeps quiet as he observes the body. Decomposition isn’t very advanced yet, but it has started. The clothes are the same ones Moran died in. The face is a mess, the skin discolored, the extremities…

The hands have been severed, possibly to prevent the attempt to retrieve fingerprints, but Sherlock doubts that’s the reason, not when he notices that something else has been cut off the body. The trousers and pants are pulled down just enough to show what’s missing.

“Anything?” Lestrade asks.

“Mutilation was post-mortem,” Sherlock says, his words slowing down while his mind races. “The body was removed from its grave, mutilated then posed here, possibly as a message.”

He makes himself stop there before he says more than a simple look at the scene should be able to provide, even for him. But it’s clear to him that whoever is behind all this – and it has to be linked; to believe in a coincidence would be foolishly naïve at this point – whoever they are, they knew where to find Moran’s body like they knew where to find Moriarty’s. They also knew Moran died here. And they knew about the abuse; why else would they have mutilated his corpse?

All that only adds to the same question he’s been wondering about ever since he saw Moriarty’s empty coffin with his own eyes: who would have known? Who _could_ have known? This scene gives him another clue: he knew, James knew – and Mycroft’s people knew.

Mycroft’s people buried Moriarty in an unmarked plot. They came to this warehouse after Sherlock called Mycroft, ‘cleaned’ up the scene and, again, buried the body of a criminal. They looked for James’ original birth certificate before they fabricated a new paper trail, no doubt realizing whose child this was. They went into Moriarty’s house, possibly gleaning some insight about James. And they processed a battery of STD tests for a child; a conclusion would have been easy to reach as to why those tests were necessary.

One or more of Mycroft’s people are either behind all this or working for the person who is. That’s a disturbing thought in itself. More disturbing yet is the fact that Sherlock has entrusted James’ – and John’s – safety to these same people.

“I have to go,” he mutters, already turning away, but Lestrade’s hand closes briefly on his arm.

“Not yet. There’s something else you need to see.”

Sherlock is torn; another clue, maybe, to solve all this… Is it worth taking the time to look at it? James isn’t alone, after all, and John wouldn’t let anything happen to either of them.

“Just for a minute,” he says, and pulls his phone out as he follows Lestrade to the ladder, quickly typing,

_Is everything ok? I’ll be coming home soon._

“Funny you’d mention a message,” Lestrade says dryly as he leads the way up the platform, where Sherlock first talked to James what seems like so long ago.

From up there, Lestrade points down at something on the floor of the building. Two words, the letters half a meter tall, laid out in bright red paint. A name.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade reads aloud. “I’ve got an idea that dead body and whatever message comes with it is for you. Are you going to tell me what it means or who it’s from?”

“How would I know?” Sherlock snaps, barely able to keep his growing fear out of his voice. “I never liked riddles, and I definitely don’t—”

His voice trails off when the warehouse door bangs open and in rushes—

“James!” John cries out, bursting in after James. “James, stop right this minute!”

But James doesn’t stop. If anything, he runs faster. It’s as if he knows exactly where to go, much like Sherlock knew when he walked in – right to Moran’s corpse.

Sherlock elbows Lestrade out of the way as he rushes to the ladder. Halfway down, he jumps to the floor. He reaches James a second after John does, but has one advantage over John: he’s already seen the body, and he doesn’t freeze at the sight, the way James and John both did.

Just as Sherlock takes hold of James’ shoulder and makes him turn away, John shakes off the surprise and horror that have stilled him and stands in the way when James glances back, blocking his line of sight.

When James looks up at Sherlock, his eyes are cold and flat.

“Tell me again it’s not my father,” he says in a calm, cool voice.

Sherlock doesn’t have time to answer. The next few moments are chaos as Lestrade and Donovan escort the three of them back outside – along with five other policemen. Donovan tries to explain to a furious Lestrade that she was just telling John that James could definitely not go in when the boy slipped by both of them. After months of him staying outside of crime scenes without protests, neither would have guessed he’d pull something like this on them. Three times, on the way out, she tries to catch Sherlock’s attention, but he has no interest in the apology he can see in her eyes. She didn’t bring James here.

“How did you know I was here?” Sherlock asks John, who’s walking on James’ other side as though ready to stop him from running off again.

“I called Lestrade when you wouldn’t answer,” John says glumly. “You promised you wouldn’t be running off on your own, remember?”

Sherlock scoffs. He was at a crime scene with Scotland Yard; how is that running off on his own?

Once they’re outside, Lestrade insists on being dull and lecturing James, which he somewhat spoils by asking him worriedly how much he saw.

“Not much at all,” James replies, remorse thick in his words. “I’m sorry Detective Inspector. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just wanted to see Dad.”

He flashes a contrite smile up at Sherlock at that, but while it’s enough to satisfy Lestrade, that smile doesn’t touch his eyes, and that ‘Dad’ came out too smoothly to mean anything to James. Sherlock doesn’t fall for it. 

Neither does John.

“Shamming?” John says a few moments later, when Sherlock has promised to come by NSY tomorrow and the three of them are making their way back to the street.

“Shamming,” Sherlock confirms. “Would you care to tell us why, James?”

Between them, James shrugs. He’s not acting anymore when he replies in a cool tone of voice.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade was being boring. I just wanted him to let us go and the ‘dad’ thing always works on him.”

Despite himself, Sherlock flinches. James is oblivious, but John throws him a look that’s much too understanding.

“That man in there,” John starts, but doesn’t get much farther than that.

“That was Sebastian,” James interrupts. “And that’s the place where Sherlock killed him.”

They’re about to reach the main street when John’s steps stop abruptly. Sherlock stills as well, as does James, and they both turn to him.

“You knew,” John accuses, and it’s not clear who he’s talking to. “Both of you, you knew before you saw the body. You recognized the address. That’s why you—” He points a finger at Sherlock. “—didn’t want us to come, and that’s why you—” That same finger turns to James. “—threw a tantrum when I suggested you stay with Mrs. Hudson. But did it occur to either of you to _tell me_ about it? No. Of course not. Because this is all going to be so much easier if everyone keeps secrets, isn’t it?”

“I recognized the address,” Sherlock admits, a little cross, “but I didn’t _know_ what I’d find there. It could have been completely unrelated.”

James bursts out laughing at that, and the sound is like shattering glass.

“Unrelated?” he repeats, incredulous. “You can’t possibly believe that. John’s right. You knew. You just didn’t want me to know. Like you didn’t want me to come to the graveyard this morning. You had to tell me about the coffin because I knew Mycroft was having it opened, but you wouldn’t have told me about Sebastian if I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes. Would you?”

With every word, his voice grows louder, harsher, and by the end is practically shouting. Sherlock doesn’t reply. Would he have told James? If the alternative was having him see that body, yes, he’d have told him. No child, and especially not this child, needs that memory in their mind. But in the absolute, it’s true Sherlock would rather have kept this from James if at all possible. He already knows what conclusion James drew from this scene.

“And what did you expect to find when you rushed in?” he retorts, scathing. “Your father, standing there with open arms? Were you really shamming when you told Lestrade you wanted to see your _dad_? You already told us not to stop him when he comes for you. I’m surprised you didn’t bring your suitcase with you. Did you pack it yet?”

It’s a shot in the dark, but James’ downward glance betrays him. 

Yes, he did pack his suitcase. Yes, part of him did expect to find Moriarty in that warehouse – and not as a corpse. Sherlock isn’t the only one who gets to that conclusion; John passes a hand over his own face, muttering a shaken, “Christ.”

The alley suddenly feels stifling. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Sherlock turns on his heel and strides down to the street. When he hails a cab, the temptation is great to slam the door shut behind himself and go home alone. He manages to restrain himself, but just barely. As they join him, neither utters a word, which suits Sherlock just fine. He has his phone out and is typing a furious message to Mycroft. He changes his mind before hitting send. For all he knows, the person or persons in Mycroft’s employ who’ve been playing games with them have his phone under surveillance. Actually, there’s only one place Sherlock can think of that is unlikely to be bugged in any way.

He gives the cabbie Mycroft’s address even as he types,

_On our way to your place for tea.  
SH_

It’s a full four minutes before Mycroft answers with a single word.

_Acknowledged._

Which means, ‘I received your text’ but also ‘I’ll be there’ and probably ‘I understand why we’re meeting there’. Maybe he’s not as oblivious as Sherlock wants to accuse him to be, but that’s all right; Sherlock will find something else to shout about.


	20. Realignment

Mycroft’s London residence isn’t anywhere as elaborate as his property an hour and half north of the city, but it’s still pretentious enough that Sherlock always wants to roll his eyes when he first gets there. And walks in. And enters any room, really.

“Where are we?” John asks as Sherlock closes and locks the door behind him and James. He sounds… not cold, exactly, but definitely not warm either.

“Mycroft’s.”

When Sherlock shrugs out of his coat and hangs it in the foyer, they do the same before following him into the sitting room, both of them looking around with undisguised curiosity.

“And why are we here?” John continues on the same tone.

Plopping himself onto a leather sofa that looks like it just came out of a showroom, Sherlock takes a vindictive delight in propping his shoes on the perfectly polished wood of the coffee table in front of it.

“Because I need to talk to him and I need to be absolutely certain no one will spy on us.”

As he sits in the armchair across from Sherlock, John stills and frowns at him. “You think Baker Street is bugged?”

Sherlock shrugs, steepling his hands under his chin. “It has been in the past. It’s not impossible it would happen again.”

After all, they were out of London for a few days, and Mrs. Hudson is hardly the most observant of people in the best of cases, let alone after she’s taken her evening soothers.

“You mean,” James says with definite worry tinting his words, “he’s been spying on us at your home?”

Sherlock couldn’t say what annoys him the most; that James is standing against the wall by the door, back to his old trick of pretending he’s invisible, that he called it ‘your home’ when, not that long ago, it was simply ‘home,’ or that there’s no doubt whatsoever who he means by ‘he.’

James startles when Sherlock sits up abruptly, his back ramrod straight and his voice sharp as a spike. “No, _he_ isn’t doing anything because—”

“All right, stop it,” John cuts in, loud enough to cover Sherlock’s words but his voice soon returning to a normal volume. “Neither of you is going to change the other’s mind until we have solid proof one way or the other so just…” He sits forward and spreads his hands, palms out, looking back and forth between Sherlock and James. “Let’s call whoever it is ‘they’, okay? Can we agree to do that? James?”

James’ little huff is answer enough before he even says a word. “Sebastian’s body wasn’t proof enough for you? Who else would go and do _that_ to _this_ corpse?”

His conclusion is flawed, but he is asking the right question. That act of mutilation wasn’t random. It was very personal. It’s not a hundred percent certainty it was about what he did to James – it’s possible James wasn’t his first victim – but on the balance of probability, given where his body was found and the message that was left there, that’s the most likely scenario. So who would care enough about James to take vengeance on a dead man?

While Sherlock’s thoughts bounce through his head without settling on any one answer, John continues his pointless attempt at ushering peace.

“James, can you please just…” He sighs. “Humor me? Let’s call that person ‘they’?”

“All right,” James says sullenly, crossing his arms. “But it’s not going to change anything.”

“Sherlock? Agreed?”

Still caught in his mind, Sherlock hums a vague affirmative. For a few seconds, nothing intrudes on his thoughts, and then—

“May I use the restroom?”

Sherlock doesn’t register that the question is addressed to him, not until John says his name with a hint of exasperation. Blinking, Sherlock looks at him, then at James.

“Staircase down the hall,” he says. “Upstairs, first door on the left.”

James doesn’t make a sound as he slides out of the room.

“How long until Mycroft arrives?” John asks when they’re alone.

With a quick glance at the ornate clock on the wall, Sherlock takes a guess. “Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

Nodding once to himself, John stands slowly then crosses his arms. He looks down at Sherlock. “All right. Let’s go at it again, then. Remember this morning when you _promised_ not to keep things from me? And _promised_ not to run into God knows what alone? Do you value your word so little that you broke it just hours after giving it?”

Irritation slides over Sherlock until he can’t remain still anymore and has to jump to his feet. By now, John should have realized Sherlock is not in the habit of making promises at all, and on the rare occasions he does he’s not one to break them.

“I didn’t hide anything from you,” he says coldly. “I didn’t know what I was going to find. And I was hardly alone anyway. Half Scotland Yard was there. There was no danger whatsoever. No reason for you to worry.”

John’s dry bark of laughter holds no mirth. He draws his phone from his pocket and, shaking his head, flicks his thumb over the screen a few times before walking around the coffee table and practically shoving the phone in Sherlock’s face.

_Is everything ok? I’ll be coming home soon._

“I wrote this,” Sherlock says. “I know what it says.”

“You wrote this,” John repeats, looking at the phone. “You believed we were home. No danger there. No reason for you to worry. Was there?”

From his expression, he’s all but daring Sherlock to protest and say that of course not, he wasn’t worried. The simple fact that he sent that text, however, and on top of it unsigned, is damning enough, so Sherlock chooses another angle of defense.

“I’d just realized that I’d left you two under the guard of people who might have something to do with everything that’s happening. I had reason to be worried. Whereas you—”

John raises a hand, his brow deeply furrowed. “Wait a second. Just, wait. You mean… Mycroft’s people? They’re behind all this?”

Grimacing, Sherlock scrubs a hand through his hair. “If not behind it, at least someone is leaking information. Who else knew where Moriarty and Moran were buried? Or that Moran died in that warehouse?”

He can see comprehension slowly dawning on John’s features.

“That’s why we’re here,” John says slowly. “You think there’s a mole and that they might have a way to listen in on Mycroft’s phone if you talked to him. Or in his office if we went to see him.”

“Correct,” Sherlock says, calming down right along with him.

When John sits on the sofa, Sherlock does the same, careful to keep a hand’s width between them.

“Okay.” John’s eyes, which had been lost in his thoughts for a second, focus on Sherlock again. “But that still doesn’t excuse you from trying to hold me at bay. I don’t care if Scotland Yard and half the country’s service secrets are going to be there. If you’re going somewhere, I am there too. Are you listening to me?”

Sherlock’s irritation resurfaces at that. He’s listening, yes; unlike John.

“You’re there, yes,” he says dryly. “Like you were there today, allowing James to see something he had no business seeing when I did warn you the scene was not a pretty sight.”

John’s head snaps up again.

“It’s not like I could have guessed he’d run in,” he protests. “What was I supposed to do, leave him alone? He started going into a panic attack when I asked if he minded staying with Mrs. Hudson.” He snorts at that. “Granted, I think he was shamming that, too. He wanted to come as badly as I did. And he was as worried as I was. You were gone without a word for hours, Sherlock. Not so much as a text message until it was to say you were off somewhere else and still didn’t want us there.”

“I didn’t text because I had nothing to say. I didn’t find anything at Bart’s, it was a waste of time.”

John sighs again, but this time it’s with a slight smile. “Just texting to say you were at Bart’s would have been nice. I had to call Molly just to know if you were even there.”

Something clicks in Sherlock’s head, realigns; the reason why John made a point of establishing that _Sherlock_ was worried suddenly makes sense. He was just showing Sherlock they’re pretty similar when it comes to some things.

“I… didn’t realize you’d worry to this extent,” Sherlock admits, and if he sounds contrite it’s not something he engineered. “In the future I will try to remember to text.”

“You mean in the future after we’ve solved this thing, right? Because you’re not going anywhere again without me until then. I’m not losing you again.”

Sherlock would object – strenuously – to that ‘again’ if not to the rest, too, but it’s hard to say as much, or anything, really, when John’s lips are suddenly pressed upon his, his hands framing Sherlock’s face and holding him close as he kisses him, deep and, just a little, frantic.

Sherlock never knew worry had a taste, but it’s right there on John’s lips, in his touch, a little bittersweet and oh, so very warm. He wonders if John can taste the same thing on his lips, too.

“Well.” Mycroft’s voice suddenly fills the room. “There goes my appetite.”

John freezes, as does Sherlock. They pull apart slowly, and stand to face Mycroft.

“Good evening to you too, Mycroft,” John says deadpan, while Sherlock gets straight to the matter at hand.

“We have to talk. One of your people—”

“I know,” Mycroft cuts in. Standing just outside the room, he’s down to his waistcoat and carrying a small tower of white boxes. There’s a distinct roundness to his shoulders, exhaustion taking its toll and ringing in his words as well when he says, “Let’s go into the dining room, shall we? I stopped for food. Where’s… Oh, there he is. Hello, James.”

Somewhere out in the hallway – how long has he been waiting out there, reluctant to interrupt what must have clearly sounded like an argument? – James offers a quiet, “Good evening, sir.”

What Mycroft thinks of him going back to ‘sir’ rather than ‘uncle’, he doesn’t show, and leads the way two doors down into the dining room. 

“What did you mean, you know?” Sherlock demands as Mycroft sets the boxes on the table and opens each one in turn, pulling out four covered plates and setting one in front of a chair. The last box contains an assortment of bread rolls that must still be warm; they smell rich and buttery.

Mycroft doesn’t reply with more than a tired, “Do sit down,” and passes into the adjoining kitchen. When he returns with cutlery, napkins and bottles of water, they’re all just standing by the table. Shrugging, he sets water, utensils and napkins by each plate and sits down at the head of the table, pulling up the metal cover even as he glances at James and John, then turns his eyes to Sherlock.

“How much do they know?”

“They know everything I know,” Sherlock bristles. “Start talking.”

What Mycroft does, instead, is start eating, one eyebrow raised pointedly at them as though to indicate how rude they are to spurn his hospitality. He takes a bite from the plate of steak and vegetables in front of him – a porcelain plate that suspiciously resembles those at his favorite French restaurant. As far as Sherlock knows, that restaurant doesn’t do take-out. The smell wafting about must be appealing, because John moves first, stepping forward and drawing a chair. He’s not seated yet that James walks around the table and sits down as well across from John, leaving the last plate, on John’s left and Mycroft’s right, for Sherlock. They start eating, and Sherlock doesn’t let the sight get to him, even if he’s grown fairly used to eating every time they do.

This is not what Sherlock came here for, and he makes that point by sitting at the other end of the table and resting both arms on the table as he leans forward. His gaze bores into Mycroft’s forehead, and after a moment Mycroft sighs, sets down his knife and fork and picks up his bottle of water.

“From the moment I found out Jim Moriarty’s coffin was empty,” he says after taking a gulp, “I’ve been combing through my own personnel to figure out who knew where he was interred. It became a lot easier when we intercepted Scotland Yard’s report about a body having been found in a very distinct warehouse, next to your name.”

John’s fork stops halfway to his mouth and he turns a decidedly displeased look to Sherlock.

“Wait, what? Your name? You didn’t say—”

Sitting back in his chair, Sherlock makes a vague gesture. “Lestrade was just showing me when you two burst in. It slipped my mind. It was painted on the floor in the warehouse.”

James, on the other hand, picked up on a different part of Mycroft’s little speech.

“So you found who’s helping my—” He stops abruptly and keeps his eyes firmly directed at Mycroft when he finishes. “Helping whoever is doing all this?”

Tired Mycroft may be, but he’s not missing anything, his gaze flicking from John to James to Sherlock and no doubt noticing and analyzing every minute byplay, every thread of tension. Sherlock’s jaw clenches tightly.

“We found someone who accessed confidential files they had no business looking at,” Mycroft finally says. “Files that concerned Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty, Sherlock, and you.”

If Sherlock didn’t know him so well, he might not notice how his voice softens ever so slightly on that last word, or how his eyes do the same as he looks at James. That tiny – minuscule, really – sliver of suspicion that Mycroft might have something to do with all this simply vanishes. He had his doubts about James staying with Sherlock, and he wasn’t shy in expressing those doubts, but for whatever reason he’s worked past them. Sherlock suspects it has to do with Mummy, and how taken she was with James from the moment she met him.

“Who is it?” James asks, at the same moment as Sherlock says, “I want to interrogate them.”

Mycroft remains poker-faced as he returns to his dinner, taking a couple of bites before he answers, each word carefully weighed.

“It was a low level administrative employee who exploited a vulnerability in our filing system. A vulnerability that has now been fixed, I might add. An employee who took her own life an hour ago in her home when my agents went to retrieve her. Apparently she preferred to face death than to possibly be forced to betray whoever she was working for. Right now we’re trying to find out what information she retrieved exactly and whom she shared it with.”

As he works to take in all that and slot every detail where it belongs, Sherlock can’t help sneering at his brother.

“You keep saying ‘we.’ You’re not working on it while you’re here enjoying your little dinner, and your people are obviously not all that trustworthy.”

Flat, cold eyes stare at Sherlock across the long table.

“I’ve been up and working since Christmas day,” Mycroft says calmly. “I was supposed to rest yesterday, but obviously it didn’t work out that way. My last actual meal was the one we shared at Mummy’s, and I’ve had little more than coffee and tea since then. I won’t be of any help to you if I don’t get food and rest. There are three people in my office I would trust with my life under any circumstances. They’re working on this until I go back later tonight. Anthea’s at Baker Street right now sweeping for surveillance equipment. She’ll wait for you and you can double-check using her gear if you don’t trust her findings.”

His back has straightened gradually while he talked, and now he might as well be a king sitting on his throne. Even John has noticed, and he watches him warily.

“Now,” Mycroft continues mildly, “are you done exorcizing your frustrations by questioning my judgment or do you require a personal apology for the actions of a subordinate I never so much as talked to but who was nonetheless my responsibility?”

That last part is, for all intents and purposes, the closest thing to an apology Mycroft is likely to give, and Sherlock doesn’t bother asking for more. He’s fairly certain Mycroft is as upset as Sherlock is that this happened under his watch.

While the three of them continue to eat, Sherlock excuses himself, reassuring John that he’s not leaving the house without them. James’ eyes flicker toward him, and it might be the same relief there; hard to say when he won’t meet Sherlock’s eyes.

Out in the sitting room, he sits down and accesses his mind palace, examining, sorting, filing again every small fact, detail and clue. By the time John and James are ready to leave, he doesn’t have any progress to show for his efforts.


	21. Frayed

Sherlock doesn’t sleep much that night, his mind caught in a loop of thoughts he can’t escape. He just doesn’t have enough pieces of the puzzle to see the picture they form. If anything, he only thinks of more questions he has no answer for.

He can’t help wondering if things would be different if it didn’t all hit so close to home – or if he had no distractions to slow his mind. But he wouldn’t give James away for an easier life, nor would he trade the arm draped over his waist for a few moments of clarity.

It’s morning already, light beginning to permeate the bedroom, when he starts to drift toward sleep. He’s halfway there when he feels John beginning to stir behind him. Part of him wants to wake up, turn to John, request another kiss like the one they shared before saying goodnight. That kiss said ‘a lot happened today but we’re okay’; this one might say, ‘whatever happens today, we’ll be together’.

Before he can rouse his body enough to do any of that, however, John ever so gently withdraws his arm and kisses the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “I know you didn’t sleep all night. Sleep now.”

It’s hard to resist that voice, or the fingers sweeping through his hair, or the second kiss, this one lingering against his temple. He keeps his eyes closed and sleeps.

It’s not even midmorning when he wakes again, and even a shower doesn’t do much to make him feel more human. He was just beginning to catch up on too many sleepless nights when the video aired, and already he’s back to the way he felt when they left London barely more than a week ago, every one of his nerves too raw. The cup of coffee John presses into hands when he finally emerges from the bedroom dressed for the day helps a lot; realizing that the untouched toast on the table was meant for James, not so much.

“He came down an hour and half ago,” John says, catching the direction of Sherlock’s frown. “Said good morning, walked into the bathroom, then back to his room. I haven’t heard a thing since.”

Sherlock stifles a groan. James went straight to his room when they came home last night – again. He spends his time up there, not even playing the piano anymore. Sherlock should do something about that, shouldn’t he?

“Lestrade called me,” John adds. “I’m supposed to remind you he wants to see you, the sooner the better.”

Something else Sherlock isn’t looking forward to…

“I assume you’ll be coming,” he says, and it’s not really a question but John answers anyway.

“Of course I am. And I’m guessing we’re taking James?”

Sherlock nods. It’s unlikely James would care to stay here alone, especially if his caretaker was to be Mrs. Hudson, but even if he wanted to stay Sherlock would feel better if he could keep an eye on him.

He sets the kettle to boil while he finishes his coffee then slathers jam on the piece of toast. 

John watches him pour tea in a mug and add sugar and milk, grinning slightly the whole while.

“Why do I have this feeling you now completely understanding how it felt for me to try to feed you all those times you went into a strop?”

Sherlock tries to scowl at him – he really does – but that proves rather difficult when John’s hand is sliding to the back of his neck to pull him down for the briefest of kisses.

Moments later, Sherlock is carrying the mug and toast on a plate up to James’ room. He can’t knock, not with both his hands full, so he taps his foot to the doorjamb twice before pushing the door open. Sitting on his bed cross-legged with his e-reader in his hands, James looks up to watch him enter.

“This is not a hotel,” Sherlock says, holding the mug out to him. “And I don’t do room service.”

After a beat, James sets the e-reader down and accepts the mug. Sherlock carefully places the plate on the bed, noticing the phone wedged under James’ leg. Was he really reading? Or was he online, watching that video again? No, he wouldn’t watch it on his phone, not when he has the full screen of his new computer.

“Isn’t bringing me breakfast the same as room service?” James asks with a tiny smile.

“Demonstration of what I won’t do again,” Sherlock says. “Starving yourself or hiding up here is not going to solve the case.”

That tiny smile dissolves instantly and James looks down at the mug in his hands.

“Is that all it is?” he asks as he raises it to his lips. “A case like any other one?”

“Not like any other one,” Sherlock concedes. “Regular cases don’t affect you like this.”

James’ eyes return to him at that, dark and blank. “Are you saying I’m the only one affected? The circles under your eyes say something different.”

And the circles under _his_ say Sherlock isn’t the only one who had a bad night. What a pair they make…

“Eat your breakfast,” Sherlock says a little gruffly. “And then come down. We need to go to Scotland Yard.”

For a second before Sherlock turns away, he could swear there’s outright fear in James’ eyes. But fear of what? He’s never been afraid of the Yard before.

It’s only twenty odd minutes later, when they’re in the cab, that Sherlock finally gets it when James asks, “Did they find… did they find someone else? Is that why they want you there?”

Sherlock berates himself for not understanding sooner. He could have cleared that up right away. 

“No, nothing like that. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Lestrade yesterday, what with you bursting onto the scene. Nothing more.”

He didn’t get a chance to take samples from the paint used to write his name either, or to observe the writing from up close to determine how it was painted exactly. It’d be his inclination to go back and finish getting a proper look at the scene, but he can’t imagine dragging James there again. And since John won’t let him go anywhere on his own…

He didn’t mind all that much when John made that clear, but he’s starting to see how that might become chaffing, and fast.

At NSY, however, John doesn’t have much of a choice when Lestrade insists he needs to talk to Sherlock alone. Well, alone is relative; Moran is in the conference room too, if only on pictures, and Sally is there as well, leaning against the wall and silent while Lestrade invites Sherlock to sit down and starts asking question. His tone is definitely sharper than usual.

“Is there anything you know about this case that you haven’t told me?” he asks, his fingers shuffling the crime scene photos between them.

Picking up a close up of his name, Sherlock examines it closely as he replies, absentminded.

“Am I in the habit of withholding information from you?”

Lestrade scoffs. “Yes. Yes you are, in fact.” He pushes a close up of Moran’s face closer to Sherlock. “Do you know who that man was?”

“No,” Sherlock says calmly.

Lestrade may have suspected him of lying in the past, but he’s never caught him red-handed, and it’s certainly not going to change today, even if he stares at Sherlock as though trying to read his mind.

“Had you ever been in that warehouse before yesterday?” he continues.

Sherlock shrugs. “Not that I can recall.”

“Do you have any idea why your name was written there?” 

This time it’s Sally who asks the question even as she steps closer to the table. Sherlock looks at her; her crossed arms and closed expression make him wonder if he’s here as a consultant or suspect. It’d explain why John is currently sitting in Lestrade’s office with James rather than here.

“How could I possibly know that?” he replies with a smile that he knows will get under Sally’s skin and irk her to no end.

“Is it Moriarty?”

The abrupt question wipes the smile off Sherlock’s face and his eyes snap back to Lestrade. Of all the things he could have expected to hear today… Is there anyone in all of bloody London who doesn’t think Moriarty is back? 

“Are you asking me whether Jim Moriarty’s ghost is haunting me, Lestrade?” he asks, injecting every ounce of scorn and derision he’s capable of into the words.

Lestrade doesn’t react in any way.

“I’m asking you if he’s alive. Two days ago, that video. Yesterday, a crime scene meant as a message for you. Remind me, who was it who had fun creating crime scenes for you to look at? Received any weird phone calls lately? Should we put the bomb squad on alert?”

Closing his eyes, Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh.

“He is dead,” he says flatly when he opens his eyes again. “And I am sick and tired of having to repeat that to everyone.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s hard to believe,” Sally says, slightly mocking, “coming from someone who came back from the dead himself.”

“I was never—” He stops himself mid-growl. On the table, his hands are clenched tight over evidence photos, ruining them. It takes all that he has in him to calm down and turn an impassive look back to Lestrade. “If that’s all the questions you have, we’re done here.”

He starts to push his chair back, but Lestrade stops him with a gesture.

“Actually, Sally wanted to show you something.”

She’s had a rolled up piece of paper in her hand since he walked in. Only now does she unroll it and set it on the table in front of Sherlock. Sherlock looks down at the unsmiling face of Sebastian Moran and remembers exactly what his neck felt like at the moment it broke in Sherlock’s hands. 

“So?” Sally says impatiently.

Sherlock raises a cool gaze to her. “So what? Your facial reconstruction program works. How exciting. What do you want from me, a song and dance?”

Lestrade taps his fingers on the table. “You know who that is.”

“I told you I don’t know who your victim is. How many times—”

“That’s not the victim,” Sally interrupts, a note of triumph in her words. “They’re still working on getting a clean image of his face. This does look like him, though, doesn’t it?” Her smile shows too many teeth. “In fact this was a portrait James made a few weeks ago when I was showing him how the facial reconstruction software works. He tried to delete it before you two left, but it was still in the program’s memory.”

Sherlock remembers that day quite well; he remembers just how upset James was, too.

“And you printed it?” He tries for derision, but mostly he sounds angry. “How sentimental of you, Sally. Are you going to ask him to sign it? Stick it on your fridge, maybe?”

“Mostly I thought I could ask him is who this man is,” she replies, unconcerned by the jibe. “I’ve seen a lot of people play with that software. There’s those who just invent a face, and those who try to picture someone they know. This—” She leans over the table to touch the print out. “—is someone real. Someone he knew. Someone who’s now on a slab in the morgue. Someone who appears a couple of times in our database as a person of interest but with no name attached to him.”

This is not good. This is not good at all. With a bit of time, Sherlock might come up with an explanation, a lie simple and reasonable enough that they’d never question it. But time is one thing he doesn’t have right now.

“I’m going to ask again, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. “Do you know who our victim is? And if you don’t, I’ll have to bring James in here and ask him about this portrait. I don’t want to, but if you give me no other choice…”

He lets the end of that sentence hang between them, spreading his hands as though to indicate his options are limited.

So are Sherlock’s.

Admitting flat out that he lied and does know Moran’s identity won’t endear him to Lestrade. But the alternative is to have James questioned, and he can’t and won’t allow that. Not for anything. Not when the subject of those questions is Moran.

Leaning back in his chair, he crosses his arms and stares at Lestrade as he answers, his words devoid of inflection.

“Sebastian Moran. Or at least that’s one of his names. I’m sure he had many aliases.”

There’s no surprise in Lestrade’s eyes; no triumph either. Just a grim determination to take this to its end.

“And how did you know him?”

“He used to work for Moriarty. Killer for hire, amongst other things.”

“How did James know him?” Sally jumps in, and that’s where Sherlock draws the line.

“You wanted his identity,” he says, keeping his eyes on Lestrade. “You have it. Leave James out of it.”

Lestrade looks up at Sally. No words are exchanged, but whatever else passes between them, Sally soon strides out of the room, closing the door again behind her. She’s not happy about it, but she goes without a word. Lestrade meanwhile sighs and runs both his hands over his face.

“Sherlock—”

“ _No_. He’s a child and you’re not dragging him into an investigation that has nothing to do with him.”

Oh, how Sherlock wishes that last part was true…

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says again, sighing. “Whose child is he?”

The question feels like a slap. Sherlock is out of his chair and glowering down at Lestrade before he knows it.

“He’s my son!”

“Is he?” Lestrade says flatly, standing as well. “Oh, yes, adopted, that’s what you said. Except that before that, you said he was a relative. And the press says you’re his biological father. So which is it?”

Sherlock grinds his teeth and doesn’t reply.

“And then,” Lestrade goes on, “there’s the fact that he looks just like Moriarty. That he shares his first name. That he apparently knew at least one of Moriarty’s people well enough to reconstruct his face. And at your Christmas party, you called his father a ‘shining example’, except you meant the opposite.”

He must sense that this last part, in particular, would have been better left in the realm of ‘friendship’ rather than brought over to ‘work’, because he rushes through the end of it.

“I’m going to ask you again, Sherlock. Do you know more than what you told me? Is this about James? Is his father behind all this?”

Sherlock considers repeating that he is James’ father but something in Lestrade’s gaze warns him that it’s too late to play word games now. 

“No. I don’t know. His father is dead. These are the answers to your questions, in order.” Resting both fists on the table, he leans toward Lestrade and drops his voice. “If you so much as allude to the topic in front of him, I will never work with the Yard again. Not even if it means leaving all of London to burn. Same goes for Sergeant Donovan. Make sure she understands she really doesn’t want to cross me on this.”

When he turns to leave, Lestrade says his name again, anger creeping into the word. Sherlock ignores him and strides out. John was standing by the open door of Lestrade’s office, and when his eyes find Sherlock’s across the room, he frowns instantly. Sherlock tries to school his features, so that when John and James meet him in the middle of desks and cubicles he’s hopefully not giving away just how angry he is.

“We’re leaving,” he says sternly, already angling his path toward the elevators.

“What happened?” John asks in a low voice, matching him stride for stride.

Sherlock huffs. “They asked stupid questions and I tried not to call them idiots. Not sure I can refrain much longer unless we leave now.”

The elevator doors have already closed on them by the time James looks up from his e-reader to ask, “What kind of stupid questions?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Sherlock replies, probably too quickly; it’s clear James takes his answer to be the exact opposite of the truth. He’s always been much too clever for all their sakes, but it certainly doesn’t help that Sherlock is too annoyed to sham properly.

On the way home, he tries his best to calm down, and he sounds reasonably composed when, back in 221B, he stops James from retreating back to his room.

“James. Would you come sit with us for a minute?”

Although he gives both Sherlock and John wary looks, James does as requested and goes to sit at the far end of the sofa, opening his suit jacket and smoothing down his tie absently. John settles down in his armchair but Sherlock is too full of nervous energy to sit right now. This might not be the best time to question James, but he doubts there’s going to be a better opportunity anytime soon. 

“I wish I didn’t have to ask you,” he says, standing in the middle of the sitting room and looking down at James, “but I need to know. You’ve never met your mother. Correct?” At James’ slight nod, he continues. “Do you know anything about her? Anything at all?”

James’ expression remains void of anything. “No.”

“You never asked him about her?” John asks, his tone far more soothing than anything Sherlock could manage right now.

James shakes his head. “No. I didn’t want to know. I figured…” He swallows hard, his countenance right on the edge of breaking. “I figured either he forced her to have a baby and maybe he killed her afterward, or she was like him and just… left. Either way, I don’t think I want to know.”

Of course he doesn’t want to know, Sherlock thinks, his throat tightening painfully. Someone else who died – or so James would see it – because of him, or someone else who abandoned him to the clutches of a madman. Which alternative would be worse?

“Is that what you think?” James asks, now frowning. “That it’s her doing all this?”

“It’s one theory,” Sherlock mutters, wishing he hadn’t broached the subject at all. He should have asked Mycroft. He _will_ ask Mycroft. Right now, in fact. He pulls his phone out and starts typing.

“What other theories do you have?” James asks, sounding like he’s almost afraid to know.

Sherlock ponders answering or not, and finally does so with a question of his own.

“Do you remember any family member visiting? Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins? Anything like that?”

James shakes his head again. “No one ever came to visit us. Only Sebastian. Father says…” A muscle twitches in his cheek as he corrects himself. “He said his parents were dead and he didn’t have any brothers or sisters.”

“He could have been lying,” John says, looking up at Sherlock.

“He never lied to _me_ ,” James interjects at once. “Why would he lie about that anyway?”

“I don’t know,” John offers, holding his hands palms up. “We’re just thinking aloud, James. Please don’t get upset.”

But it seems too late for that. Getting to his feet, James stares somewhere between Sherlock and John as he asks, “May I go to my room now?”

“If you want to,” Sherlock says, swallowing a sigh. “But we haven’t had a violin lesson in a while. I thought maybe you’d like to play together for a bit.”

“I’m in the middle of a book,” James says, still not looking at him. “I’d like to finish it.”

Sherlock knows when he’s beaten. He gets out of the way to let him pass, sitting in his chair a little abruptly.

James is almost at the door when he hesitates and glances back. “Another time?” he asks very quietly.

“Whenever you want,” Sherlock says, not managing to summon a smile to accompany the words.

James starts to leave again, but stops once more, this time at John’s words.

“I’ll warm up leftovers. Lunch will be ready soon.”

“I’m not hungry.”

John snorts. “Yeah, heard that one before. But you’ll still come down when I call you and have something to eat. Doctor’s orders.”

James leaves without protesting any further. John doesn’t get up to go take care of those leftovers. Instead he sits there, his foot pressing against Sherlock’s as he observes him quite as intently as Sherlock watches him.

“Are you okay?” he asks after a few seconds.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock replies, almost by rote, and winces internally because using these particular words is as good as admitting he’s anything but. His discussion with Lestrade threw him off, and he’ll tell John about it – just not now. He still needs to process what happened before he talks about it. So, before John can ask, he shifts the conversation.

“You haven’t been acting like a doctor toward him. More like a parent.”

John’s body stiffens for a second; surprised, then.

“Have I?” he says, frowning.

Sherlock nods. “For weeks you refused any role that might be even vaguely construed as parental but in the last couple of days that has changed.”

He thinks about it for a moment, and finally inclines his head. “I guess it did, yes. It’s hard to see you two butting heads when you got along so well until now. If I can ease things a bit… Unless you’d rather I didn’t?”

“No,” Sherlock says quickly. “Please do. It’s good. If you weren’t there I might forget he needs to eat and let him starve himself.”

John rolls his eyes at him. “No you wouldn’t. I know you don’t believe me when I say it, but you’re a good father.”

“Not good enough.”

“How do you figure that out?”

Can’t John see it? Surely he can’t be that blind…

“Setting aside the fact that Moriarty’s dead, James is ready to go back to him. He’s been distancing himself from me.”

Pushing himself out of his chair, John smiles sadly at Sherlock. “Or. He’s terrified you’ll get hurt if you stand in the way and he’d rather go quietly than be the reason you get killed.” He leans down to brush his lips to Sherlock’s and whispers, “That’s what I would do, too.”

Sherlock watches him walk over to the kitchen and wonders if maybe _he_ is the one who’s blind here.


	22. Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks for all the lovely comments and theories, they are quite appreciated.
> 
> And the quick updates / longer chapters probably won't last, so i hope you enjoy while they do...

“How about taking him to the riding centre again?”

The suggestion gives Sherlock pause and he looks up from his laptop and the virtual board of linked ideas and pictures he’s been working on. Normally he’d print it all and pin it to the wall, but he didn’t need John’s quiet cough and suggestion that, maybe, James’ fragile state of mind could do without a crime scene wall; truly, he’d have realized as much on his own long before finishing. 

Whether on the wall or on a screen, the display isn’t helping him figure out anything, however; if anything, it only frustrates him even more. Or it might be James’ attitude at fault here.

He meets John’s eyes across the room. James is already back upstairs. Just like for lunch and dinner yesterday, he came down for breakfast this morning, ate enough to satisfy John’s watchful eye, and asked to be excused. Every time Sherlock has gone up to check on him, he’s found him with either a book or the e-reader in his hands, although once or twice his eyes had a faraway look that seemed more in tune with intense thinking than actual reading. 

He’s fine, he keeps repeating. He just wants to finish reading this story, or the next. He doesn’t feel like playing music right now, or working on his French, but maybe later. Doesn’t feel like watching telly, or going to see a movie, not today. Doesn’t feel like playing a board game or – and that’s a first – going to Bart’s to visit Molly and see whatever interesting bits she apparently set aside for them.

Every attempt at distracting him Sherlock and John made so far have been shot down, which is why Sherlock is more than reluctant to try again. Although, of all the things James enjoys, riding is pretty high on the list, and he’s only done it once in the past several years…

“Right after his first ride was the happiest he’s been since the video aired,” John continues. “He’s not going to say no.”

Sherlock isn’t so sure himself, but they give it a try. God knows they could all use some fresh air.

And by some miracle, James doesn’t say no. He hesitates a little, even offers an excuse or two and pointedly asks if Sherlock and John will be staying or if they’ll be going somewhere without him again, but in the end they’re across town, signing in at the front desk.

Sherlock and John do, in fact, stay at the centre. A coffee shop on the second floor offers a sweeping view of the riding grounds along with a place for bored parents to wait. Sherlock claims a table by the floor to ceiling, wall to wall windows but far from looking out, he looks in, back to his mind palace and the running list of facts, clues, suppositions and unanswered questions he works on constantly. When John sits across from him, he sets two steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits on the table and lightly kicks Sherlock’s shin.

“He’s not the only one who needs to stop thinking about that mess,” he says, unapologetic, when Sherlock frowns at him. “Mycroft is working on it, so are his people, so is Lestrade. Take a couple of hours off.”

As reluctant as Sherlock is to admit it, John might have a point. And since the mention of Lestrade reminded Sherlock he meant to tell John about his ‘interrogation’ yesterday, he does that while sipping on his mug of tea. The biscuits aren’t too bad either.

All in all, when it comes time to go home, James seems a lot less tense, and Sherlock knows exactly how that feels. He knows, too, why John looks so self-satisfied, though he can’t begrudge him for it. They have the driver leave them in front of Angelo’s and have lunch there – and dessert; so close to Christmas, Angelo is still serving homemade panettone. They walk home with an extra serving to share at dinner, and find Mycroft waiting for them in their sitting room. Given how he found them in his home just two days ago, Sherlock foregoes his usual protests. He can’t help taunting Mycroft though, offering with a too wide smile, “Cake?”

Mycroft raises his eyes to the ceiling, the very picture of silent suffering. At least, he loses no time giving out the news he’s brought.

“Let’s start with our mole. She worked for our services in various capacities for the past twenty-five years. As far as the records show, she received regular payments from an unidentifiable source for just as long, although she doesn’t appear to have been transmitting information regularly. What she shared in the past couple of months seems to have been the first instance for at least fifteen years.”

“So… long term plant?” John suggests. With Mycroft having appropriated his seat, he propped himself up on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, his arm laid out against the back, close enough that Sherlock only needs to lean back a little to rest against him – not that he’d do that in front of Mycroft.

“It would appear so,” Mycroft says with a faint nod. “We’re still working on tracing the money back to its source. So far we are getting stalled by Swiss institutions. Coincidentally, one of them is the bank where Monsieur Lenfant has an account.”

He throws a sideways glace toward the sofa at that, and James lets out a quiet sound that just might be a scoff. 

“Coincidentally,” James repeats.

“That’s the term I used, yes.”

Mycroft’s tone seems a little sharper and far less patient than it was at his dinner table, though why is a mystery to Sherlock.

“Quite on purpose,” he adds. “Given how careful Jim Moriarty was not to have anything whatsoever link your bank account to him, I’d be inclined to think it’s a very telling coincidence, too.”

Sherlock has to agree with him on that. If Moriarty had been paying off that woman, he wouldn’t have chosen the same bank for James. Of course James’ interpretation is the opposite of theirs; no surprise there.

“Now,” Mycroft says after a brief pause. “The other thing you asked me to look into, Sherlock.” He pulls a file from the side of the armchair where he’d wedged it and reads, occasionally looking up. “Angela Peters, age thirty-nine. Currently a resident of Wales where she teaches differently-abled children. A widow for twelve and a half years. She married a slightly younger man she met in university while she was finishing a doctorate in medieval literature. They had a child within the year. Both father and child tragically perished in a car accident six months after his birth. She subsequently started to receive regular ‘insurance’ payments that could allow her to never work a day in her life and live quite comfortably, should she choose to. She instead funded a primary school and distributes whatever money she doesn’t need to run it to various charities. She’s been visiting the graves of her husband and child twice a month since their deaths. She has no idea that both graves are and have always been empty.” He closes the file before handing it over. “You can cross her off your list.”

While Sherlock accepts the file, he doesn’t open it, and instead glances at James, wondering if he understands whom Mycroft was talking about. Judging from his wide eyes and slack mouth, he does. So does John, as he gently tugs the file out of Sherlock’s hands and flips it open.

“That… that woman…” James says. “What you just said… she’s…”

“Yes,” Mycroft says before James can finish.

It comes out as a whisper. “My mother?”

“Yes,” Sherlock repeats.

“She’s alive?”

“Alive and well.”

“And she’s… she’s a good person?”

How Mycroft can remain impassible while answering the awe in James’ voice, Sherlock has no idea.

“It certainly appears she is.”

“And she thinks I’m dead?”

“That’s what she’s been told.”

Sherlock can practically hear the cogs running in James’ mind, though he’d be hard pressed to take a guess as to what he thinks. James had two hypotheses, both terrifying to him, and neither is turning out to be true. Surely it has to be good news.

“Would you like to meet her?” Sherlock asks, as neutrally as he can, not because he wants James to meet that woman but because it feels like his rather uncomfortable duty to put the idea on the table.

James’ reaction is not what he expected, his eyes widening again as he shakes his head almost frantically.

“No. No, we can’t bring his attention to her.” He grimaces and corrects himself before Sherlock can do it for him. “Their attention. We can’t bring their attention to her, whoever they are.”

So, not now. But one of these days, when the case is solved and the threat has passed…

“There’s a photo in the file,” Mycroft says, almost idly.

James’ eyes lock on the folder in John’s hands, while his fingers clench on his jeans. He wants to reach out for the file, or at least ask to see it, that much is clear, but he doesn’t let himself do it. Instead, he asks Mycroft, “Is it… Is the file for Sherlock or are you taking it back?”

When Mycroft assures him the file will stay, he nods faintly. Sherlock gives him a day before he asks for that picture. Or Sherlock could just leave the file in plain sight and let James take it without having to explain himself.

When James stands, Sherlock thinks for a second that he has changed his mind already; but no, he’s on his way back to his room. Apparently, he needs a moment to himself. Mycroft, however, doesn’t let him go as far as the door before saying without looking back at him, “James. I’ll have them back, now.”

James freezes instantly, and from the worried look he throws at Mycroft, he knows what this is about. Sherlock, on the other hand, is in the dark.

“Have what back?” he asks.

“He knows what I mean,” Mycroft says coolly. “Don’t you, James?”

So still that he’s barely breathing. James doesn’t reply. Mycroft shifts in the armchair to look at him.

“I could have searched your room before you returned. I’ve had plenty of practice, believe me. I did you the courtesy of not doing that. Now you’ll do me the courtesy of not dragging things out.”

Swallowing hard, James lets out a quiet, “Yes, sir,” and hurries up to his room.

Mycroft sits up straight again, his face giving away nothing.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says warningly, at the same time as John demands, “What is going on here?”

But Mycroft refuses to answer and waits for James’ return. It doesn’t take long. He comes back before much more than a minute has passed. When he hands Mycroft a handkerchief cleanly folded up on itself, his face is practically scarlet and his gaze glued to the floor.

Mycroft takes the handkerchief without a word and opens it in his palm, revealing two small, white, lozenge-shaped pills.

“What is that?” John asks sharply but Mycroft continues to ignore the questions thrown at him and addresses James sternly. “That’s not all of them.”

A shiver runs through James and he takes the tiniest of steps back. It’s been a long time since he made a point to remain out of reach of nearby adults, and Sherlock is caught between demanding that Mycroft stop talking to him that way and demanding an actual explanation as to what is going on there.

“I… I took the other ones,” James says in a whisper, and that’s more than enough for Sherlock.

“What is going on?” he asks harshly, leaning forward toward Mycroft. “What are those?”

Folding the handkerchief again, Mycroft makes it and its contents disappear inside his suit jacket. His expression is pinched, and for a second Sherlock wonders if he’s going to answer at all. When he does, it’s with the crisp, sharp consonants that always indicate he’d rather be divulging state secrets than speak the words passing his lips.

“Sleeping aids. I renewed the prescription a few days ago. The bottle was in my bathroom. I opened it last night. Six pills were missing. You three are the only people who have been in my house since I got them.”

His eyes meet Sherlock’s, and what passes between them is enough to make Sherlock’s jaw clench. It wasn’t sleeping pills, for him, but it did start with medication stolen from a medicine cabinet.

“Well,” Mycroft says as he stands. “I don’t believe I’m needed here anymore, and I certainly wouldn’t want to intrude. Good day.”

Seconds pass in silence. Downstairs, the front door closes on Mycroft a little more loudly than it usually does. James’ feet slide ever-so-slightly toward the door.

“Sit down,” Sherlock says, and while he meant to snap, his voice sounds hollow.

James immediately takes the armchair Mycroft vacated. He’s still looking down, now at his hands, fisted on his knees. John’s fingers close on Sherlock’s shoulder, and it’s hard to say whom John is trying to anchor with that touch, himself or Sherlock.

“You stole six of those pills?” John asks calmly.

James nods.

“And you took four of them?”

Another nod.

“All four at once?”

A shake of head, this time. “Two last night. And two the night before.” For the first time since he came back down, he looks up, his eyes pleading when they meet Sherlock’s. “I just wanted to sleep.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t want to dream anymore.”

“You took two at a time,” John says, a little louder. “Two nights in a row. Bad enough that you’d steal these things and take them at all, but Christ! Why on Earth would you take two?”

James’s eyes turn to him, now confused. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? When… when Sebastian had things to do and he didn’t want to deal with me he’d always give me two sleeping pills and I’d sleep for hours.”

John’s fingers tighten on Sherlock’s shoulder, and this time Sherlock knows it’s the same anger they both feel, though not toward the boy in front of them.

“No,” Sherlock manages to say. “That’s not what you’re supposed to do.”

“All right.” John sounds like he’s steeling himself. “One thing at a time. No one your age should take sleeping pills. Period. These things can be addictive, and in the wrong dosage they can be dangerous. You’re lucky you woke up at all.”

The bluntness of the statement has its desired effect, and James’ eyes grow wider.

“You mean… I could have died?”

“I mean your heart could have slowed down to the point where it wasn’t pumping enough oxygen to your brain anymore, and yes, you could have died. Taking one of those when they weren’t prescribed to you was ill advised. Taking two was reckless.”

James shakes his head. “I… I didn’t want that. I wasn’t trying… I just wanted to sleep.”

“Okay. That’s the second thing. If you have trouble sleeping, what you should do is _tell us_. There are safe things we can try.”

“Like what?” James asks in a meek voice.

“Like chamomile before bedtime. Like herbal supplements. We can start with those and see if they help rather than going straight to medication.”

James nods, dropping his gaze again, but John isn’t done.

“I wish you’d told us. Either of us. Rather than go through Mycroft’s things, steal from him and self medicate to the risk of your own life.”

“I just wanted—”

“To sleep, yes,” Sherlock cuts in. “We understand that. But I told you, any time you want you can come down here. You don’t have to be alone with your nightmares.”

James flinches at that. He likes the word no more than Sherlock does, but it’s too late to tiptoe around it now.

“I don’t want to bother you,” he whispers.

“That never bothered me. John?”

“Nope. Not bothered either. I’ve had my share of sleepless night, I know what that’s like.”

“However,” Sherlock adds, “that you went through Mycroft’s medicine cabinet and stole sleeping pills… That bothers me. A _lot_.”

More so than he can explain without revealing things he’d much rather James never learned about. It’s probably hypocritical of him, but he’d rather not tarnish the image James has of him with talks of overdoses and addiction. Besides, he tells the little voice that calls him a coward, John already covered those topics.

“I won’t do it again,” James says, looking up. There’s nothing more than sincerity in his voice and expression. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock glances at John, gets a slight nod and squeeze to his shoulder in reply. Situation dealt with, moving on – or at least, they can do so after just one more thing.

“Good. You will write Mycroft an apology letter and tell him exactly how sorry you are. Bearing in mind that he probably would have preferred skinning himself alive than let any of us know he has issues sleeping.”

And Sherlock already knows that’s a topic he’ll never address with his brother, not even if Mycroft was more insufferable than he’s ever been to date.

“Okay.”

“There’s paper on the desk,” John points out.

James blinks at them. “You want me to do it now?”

They don’t bother answering, but he gets the message anyway, loud and clear as he slips off the armchair and goes to sit at the desk.

Sherlock looks up at John with a grim smile, and gets a matching one in return. They’d have missed that crisis if Mycroft hadn’t pointed it out to them, but they don’t make a bad team. It was certainly less intimidating to face than some of James’ past break downs Sherlock had to confront on his own.

“I’m going to the store,” John says as he stands. “I’ll get some chamomile tea and food. There’s nothing in the fridge but take out boxes. Do you want anything?”

Sherlock doesn’t, and James, already leaning forward over a piece of paper with a frown on his face and a pen in his hand doesn’t seem to even hear. John leaves alone – though he won’t be without a shadow – and Sherlock moves to stand by the window, picking up his violin case on the way and applying rosin to the bow almost absently.

The crisis is over, and yet… Something just feels off. Shouldn’t he have noticed? Sherlock doesn’t know that specific medication, but shouldn’t two pills have knocked James out, made him sleep longer, even left him a little groggy? Unless his reluctance to come out of his room this past couple of days was a result of his lethargy?

“Is this going to be my only punishment?” James asks after a little while.

Sherlock turns to the desk. The sheet of paper is half-covered in James’ small, tidy handwriting.

“The letter? It depends on how much care you put in writing it.”

He means it as a mild warning, but James doesn’t seem to hear it as such. He watches Sherlock pull the violin to his neck and draw out a few notes. When Sherlock stops to fiddle with the tuning pegs, he says, quite seriously, “You should take something I like from me. That’d be a better punishment than writing a letter.”

Sherlock is suddenly reminded of that day James waited alone in his room for hours, convinced that he’d earned himself a beating as a punishment for some imagined transgression. They’ve made some progress, but maybe not as much as Sherlock believed.

“Like riding,” James continues. “You should forbid me to ride for a month. Or even two.”

Stunned speechless, Sherlock can only stare at him. Just a couple of hours ago, James was beaming when they left the riding centre. And now this?

“I did something wrong,” James persists when Sherlock fails to reply. “I stole and I did something that could have killed me. I really didn’t know, I swear. But I still should be punished with more than just a letter.”

“Everybody makes mistakes, James. The important is that you understand what you did wrong and that you promised not to do it again. If you did, your punishment would be altogether more unpleasant.”

No riding? No books? Sherlock isn’t sure which would be worse, but certainly they’d be punishment enough. Just not today.

“But—” James starts to say, and Sherlock stops him with a shake of his head and a trill of his violin.

“This morning I saw you smile,” he says quietly. “Really smile. You hadn’t smiled since the last time you went riding. I’m not taking that from you just because you made one mistake.”

“But—”

“Stop it, James.” Sherlock sets his violin in its case and snaps it shut. “Just stop and tell me what all of this is really about. You don’t want me to forbid you to go riding. So what’s going on here?”

James looks at his letter, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I’m scared,” he whispers.

“About what?”

“He’s not going to stop there.” He sighs. “They. They’re not going to stop with Sebastian. There’s more coming. Something worse. I’m sure of it. If something happened to you or John—”

“I told you before. We’re not letting anyone force us to do or not do anything.”

James is silent for a moment, and Sherlock can almost see the war waging in his eyes. Continue to argue, or let it go? They’ve argued about this too much already, haven’t they?

Thankfully, James seems to think so as well, because he offers with the ghost of a smile, “You’re forcing me to write a letter.”

Sherlock snorts, relieved. “Oh, yes, what terrible punishment I’m inflicting on you,” he says, plucking said letter from under James’ arm and walking over to the sofa. “Writing a letter. It’s inhumane, really. You should add a postscript and ask Mycroft to get the writing of apology letters declared illegal for being too harsh and cruel.”

He scans the letter as he banters; it looks sincere and regretful enough. It’ll do. And after days of tense words growing fewer and fewer, it’s nice to hear James respond as he does.

“Could he really do that?” James asks, coming over to plop down close to Sherlock – surprisingly close, actually; close enough that their elbows almost touch.

“If he wanted to, probably.”

“Could he get any kind of law passed?”

Sherlock hands the letter back and suppresses a grin, wondering where James is going with that.

“Quite possibly.”

“How about a law that everyone must carry an umbrella everywhere?”

The grin becomes harder to hide. “I’m surprised he hasn’t already passed that one actually.”

James isn’t done yet. “How about a law that everyone must talk in rhymes? Could he do that?”

“Could, yes. Would, I doubt it. He hates poetry.”

“Does he? Why?”

“The language is too flowery.”

He raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Do _you_ like poetry?”

“Not really. But I used to pretend to just to annoy him.”

James chuckles. An outright laugh would be nice, but Sherlock will take his small victories as they are offered.

“How about a law that big brothers must be nice to their younger siblings?”

Scoffing, Sherlock shakes his head. “He’d probably turn that one around and say younger siblings must defer to their elders.”

“He doesn’t seem that bad as a brother.” James sounds more serious, now. “He cares about you a lot.”

“I know,” Sherlock grudgingly admits.

“Does he know you care about him too?”

“Probably.”

“Why don’t you tell him?”

The thought is, truly, cringe worthy. Of all the people in Sherlock’s life, Mycroft would appreciate an admission of feelings the least. Besides, Sherlock owes words of that kind to someone else, first.

“God no,” he mutters standing up. “He’d be appalled if I expressed anything like that aloud. As much as I would be if he did.”

As Sherlock starts to walk back to his violin, James catches the cuff of his jacket, letting go as soon as Sherlock stops.

“Would you… would you be appalled if I said it?” he asks, not quite meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock reaches out slowly – no sudden movement now – and combs his fingers through James’ hair, windswept since he rode this morning. At the smallest pressure, James tilts his head back and looks up. Sherlock lets go.

“No,” he says softly. “No, I wouldn’t be.”

“Okay.” James almost – just almost – smiles. “That’s good to know.”

This time, he lets Sherlock go, and for a moment there’s nothing but music in the room, and that’s much easier to offer, much easier to listen to than… other things. Still, it doesn’t feel like quite enough, and eventually Sherlock lowers his bow.

“You know… just because I’m not comfortable saying that kind of things—”

“I know,” James interrupts him, quite mercifully. “That’s okay. Really okay. And I’m also really sorry. About everything.”

The repeated apology comes unprompted, and seems to cover more than James’ sleeping pills blunder. Try as Sherlock might, though, he’s not exactly sure what else James has to be sorry about. His silence of the past couple of days? His insistence that his father is alive? Future mistakes?

Sherlock plays, watches James finish his letter, and hopes there will be no need for more apologies anytime soon – from either of them.


	23. New Year's Eve

That evening, John makes chamomile tea. And fills three mugs.

Sherlock’s protests that he doesn’t like chamomile, that it doesn’t work on him and that even if it did he needs to think, not sleep are all met with a steely gaze. It’s surprisingly difficult to say no to John, sometimes. Even more so when he turns out to be right.

Half an hour after that cup of tea, James excuses himself, yawning widely enough to make his jaw crack. His yawn is contagious. And if John tries not to look smug, he fails by a long shot.

Sherlock tries to keep working at his virtual crime wall but the screen seems much too bright, the words he types much too small and in the end he gives up, muttering under his breath and yawning – again – as he gets ready for bed. Now he remembers why he hates chamomile tea, he thinks mutinously as he strips and pulls on pajama bottoms.

The mattress seems much too wide, much too cold without another body in there, but it doesn’t stop Sherlock from drifting between sleep and wakefulness as he listens to the water running in the bathroom – as images of John under the shower slip into his mind, and when he sprawls over his pillow, a distant part of him is surprised that it’s so cool, so dry, so yielding, not at all like the skin his hands are exploring in his mind. But it does smell nice, at least…

“Move over,” John says quietly, giving his shoulder a light push. He sounds vaguely amused. “This is my side.”

Burying his face in the pillow – John’s pillow – Sherlock mumbles a vague protest. John spends his time complaining Sherlock doesn’t sleep enough; why is he waking him now?

“Come on, give me a bit of space so I can…”

The hand on his shoulder stops pushing and stills. Then, very slowly, it starts moving across his back, not so much a caress as it is an exploration. Sherlock hums, pleased, and wonders blearily why he always wears a t-shirt to bed. He should have slept like this from the start.

“Sherlock?” John doesn’t sound amused at all anymore. “What’s that on your back?”

 _Your hand,_ Sherlock thinks drowsily, not bothering to give voice to the words. _Your hand’s on my back. Feels nice. Wait, no. No, bring it back_ …

But John’s hand is gone, presumably busy turning on the bedside lamp. Sherlock groans and covers his head with the pillow. Too late, though. He’s awake now. And he remembers quite well why he’s been so careful to keep his back covered.

It’s not that he thought he could hide them from John forever; he just didn’t look forward to the conversation that’s bound to ensue – the conversation that starts with the return of John’s fingers, now shaking as they trace the scars covering Sherlock’s back ever so lightly, and a few shocked words.

“What… what happened? Sherlock… why didn’t you say…”

Reaching behind him, Sherlock gently lifts John’s hand off of him before rolling over. John is kneeling on the mattress next to him, his expression as distressed as though the scars were still fresh wounds.

“I did tell you about it,” Sherlock says, squeezing that trembling hand once before he lets go. “I told you I’d been caught in Serbia and was in their hands for a while.”

If anything, John stares at him even harder. “But you didn’t say… Christ!” He passes a hand over his face. “All these months, living with you… a week of sleeping in the same bed… how did I not notice?”

“John, it’s nothing,” Sherlock tries, but John doesn’t seem to hear.

He stands and starts pacing by the bed, talking to himself as much as to Sherlock.

“Within a week of you coming back you were shirtless in my dining room. I sewed you up for God’s sake! How did I not see that?”

His voice rises with his exclamation, and Sherlock can’t help glancing up at the ceiling. He knows all too well that sounds carry between the room upstairs and this floor. James isn’t directly above them, but if John’s voice keeps rising, that won’t matter much.

“You had no reason to look at my back, then or after,” he points out, keeping his words quiet. He stands and gets to his dresser to grab a t-shirt that he slips over his head. “They’re just scars, John. Not the first ones I got, and probably not the last. They don’t mean anything.”

When he faces John, it’s with the near certainty that John will ask why he’s covering them now if ‘they don’t mean anything’.

“They mean you got hurt,” John says instead. “They mean you were… tortured.”

Sherlock is almost proud of himself when he doesn’t flinch at that word – and immediately disgusted with himself. What a stupid thing to be proud of. He gets back to the bed, sitting on the edge, watching John stand there with his back stiff as a board, every muscle tense as though he’s ready to break.

“It doesn’t mean anything _now_ ,” he insists. “It’s in the past.”

John’s thin smile could slice steel to ribbons. “Is it? Remind me, aside from those few nights at your mother’s, when was the last time you had a good night of sleep?”

“It’s not… it doesn’t…”

John shakes his head. “Are you honestly trying to tell me you don’t have nightmares about it? Is there something _worse_ that you haven’t told me about?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he takes in the clues in front of him – crossed arms, fisted hands, the distance John maintains between them, that tightening of his jaw…

“You’re angry with me,” he states, calm though a little annoyed. Of all the things John could get angry about, this one, really? “Why? Because I hid a few scars from you? You never showed me your shoulder. How is that any different?”

When John raises a hand to his own shoulder, the gesture seems absentminded; his full attention is still on Sherlock.

“I’m angry with myself for not seeing it,” he says. “I’m angry with whoever did that to you. I’m not angry with you, but I am disappointed you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about it.”

If Sherlock was annoyed before, now he’s baffled. “Not trust you? Where did you get that ridiculous idea?”

He trusts John with his life – with his heart, as defective as it may be. Doesn’t he prove it every day?

Very, very slowly, John takes a step forward. Then a second one.

“Talking about these things helps, Sherlock.”

He must see the protest rising to Sherlock’s lips, ready to take shape over the word ‘Ella’, and he continues right away.

“When you trust the person you talk to, it does.”

And it’s another woman’s name that hangs between them, just as unsaid. Sherlock’s throat tightens painfully.

“I’ve spent a lot of time trying to delete those memories,” he manages to say. “I don’t think being forced to talk about them would help reach that goal.”

John’s scoff is only softened by a thin smile. “I don’t believe I could ever force you to say one word to me when you don’t feel like talking. But I do know there has to be a reason why you can’t delete them. Maybe you need to let it out.”

He’s standing close, now; as close as he can be, right in between Sherlock’s slightly parted legs. When he reaches with one hand to brush Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead, it’s all Sherlock can do not to lean into the touch.

“Or maybe I can’t delete Serbia,” he says, choking a little on the words, “because that’s where I realized how I felt about you. That’s not something I can afford to forget along with the rest of it.”

That sweeping hand stills as John’s frown returns. “So… You were… you were tortured, and in the middle of it you suddenly thought ‘oh, I think I may have feelings for John’. How does that even work?”

Despite the grim subject, Sherlock’s lips twitch toward a grin. “Not quite like that.”

John resumes his petting of Sherlock’s hair, now with both hands. “Okay, not like that. How, then? I told you how I figured it out. Your turn.”

Is it blackmail? It feels like blackmail, just a little. Or maybe Sherlock wants to think it’s blackmail, so he can have a reason not to reply. But he should reply, shouldn’t he? John has a right to know. It doesn’t matter that Sherlock feels like he’s cutting his own chest open and showing John what’s inside him, all the bloody, unappealing bits that scare people away. John _has_ done the same before, and Sherlock treasured those glimpses he was offered. Fair is fair.

What he can’t do, though, is look at John as he tells him what he’s asking to hear, so he leans forward, little by little, until his forehead is pressed against John’s stomach, and his words come out muffled by John’s t-shirt.

“I was ready to give up.” He can almost taste the bile at the back of his throat, the water tainted by his own blood. “They… I don’t think they were trying to drown me. That was just another way to try to make me talk.”

The comical thing is that Sherlock didn’t even lie to them. He told them he worked alone, but they just refused to believe him. They were sure he was part of some bigger organization that had declared war on them.

John’s hands continue to run through his hair, their rhythm slow and almost hypnotic.

“It occurred to me that letting myself drown would be quite easy,” Sherlock continues. “And at the same time that thought came up, a second one did. If I did that, if I gave up, if I died, I’d never see you again. You’re the reason I didn’t die that day, or a dozen other times after that. I had to come back to you. There was nothing more important than that except for being sure that when I did, you’d be safe. I was terrified of coming back, of telling you, of even hoping you might feel the same way, but not coming back, for any reason, was never an option. You saved my life so many times, John. And in so many ways.”

Sherlock stops there, before his voice can break. He doesn’t like this kind of things, doesn’t like just how exposed he feels, right now. Strolling around naked, or in nothing more than a sheet is nothing; it’s just skin and flesh he shows the world. But this… 

If he believed in such things as souls, he might say he just bared his to John – but he doesn’t believe and he’d never say such a silly thing aloud.

Then again, he never expected or intended to say what just passed his lips.

“Only after you saved me first,” John murmurs.

He stops his petting, clutching Sherlock hair between his fingers and, gently, ever so gently, pushing his head back, tilting it up, so that when he leans down, their mouths can easily meet. Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs into the kiss – just a sigh, nothing more, and certainly nothing like a sob. John presses a little harder against him, his hands tightening a bit and holding him in place as his tongue sweeps once, twice along Sherlock’s lips. The third time, it slides in slowly to meet Sherlock’s tongue.

Things get a little blurry after that.

Somehow, the t-shirt Sherlock just slipped on ends up on the floor. John’s t-shirt follows soon after, so that when he straddles Sherlock’s lap – when or how Sherlock ended up on his back in the middle of the bed, he has no idea – the star-shaped scar on his shoulder that Sherlock only ever got glimpses of is right there, on full display.

Without thinking, Sherlock starts to raise a hand toward it, but John flinches before Sherlock ever makes contact, and he drops his hand again.

“Still hurts,” he says, and it’s not a question; he’s seen John’s pained grimaces when the weather changes abruptly.

“Sometimes, yeah. Do yours hurt too?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Purely cosmetic. No lasting damage.”

He raises his hand again, this time to curl at the back of John’s neck and draw him down to him. Their mouths meet again, and this time there’s none of the slow tentativeness from earlier. Heat seeps into Sherlock everywhere he and John touch – their mouths, his hand on John’s neck, John’s hand on the side of his face, their chests, and lower still, where layers to pajama bottoms and pants don’t begin to hide their shared arousal.

And then Sherlock yawns in John’s mouth.

John pulls back, grinning, but before he can say a word to add to or alleviate Sherlock’s mortification, he raises a hand to cover his own answering yawn.

“That is entirely your fault,” Sherlock says, still embarrassed, but when he meets John’s eyes, they both smile.

“I thought you said chamomile had no effect on you.”

Sherlock huffs, though even he is not sure if it’s a reply to John’s words or to the fact that he’s climbing off Sherlock and pulling the covers back.

“Come on,” he says. “Get in and let’s get some sleep.”

Sleep – yawning notwithstanding – is the last thing on Sherlock’s mind as he shuffles under the covers. It might be true for John too, because when he climbs in behind Sherlock after turning the light off, he’s not as careful as he usually is to keep his hips – and aroused prick – away from Sherlock’s backside. His lips press a kiss to Sherlock’s nape, then a second one, a little lower, on one of the longest scars.

“Good night,” he says.

And if neither of them mentions that in barely more than twenty-four hours the New Year will ring in, Sherlock is fairly certain it’s at the forefront of both their minds – the New Year, and the deadline John set for them.

*

The last day of the year is extraordinarily quiet. A few years ago, even a few weeks, really, Sherlock might have found it deathly boring; today, he’ll happily take quiet if it means having John and James around, both of them looking content enough despite all the things, new and not so new, that might weigh on their minds. 

They sit together for breakfast – Sherlock even consents to temporarily relocate his microscope on the counter so the three of them have a bit more space. They share the jam and honey they brought back from Sussex, and if Sherlock didn’t know any better, he might think it all tastes better from being shared.

For a time, they give another try to Cluedo – and whatever James and John might claim, Sherlock absolutely does not need to cheat to win three times in a row. He’s just finally getting the hang of it, that’s all.

He plays the violin after that, and after listening for a bit James joins him. They stand by the window together, bathed in rare December sunlight, playing songs James already knows then teaching him Auld Lang Syne. From his seat in his armchair, John sneaks in a couple of pictures; Sherlock pretends he doesn’t notice, though he makes a mental note to get to John’s phone and acquire those pictures whenever he has a chance.

After lunch, he works on his laptop, reading through his email, deleting boring cases, solving a handful on the spot, saving a couple of possibly interesting ones to check again in a few days if things remain quiet.

John, meanwhile, is doing… something in the kitchen, discussing temperatures and time with Mrs. Hudson, who popped upstairs with a plate of biscuits.

James, and it’s a nice surprise, has yet to retreat to his room. Sprawled on the sofa, he’s reading off the e-reader in his hands, though occasionally checking his phone despite its lack of beeping. His expression reveals very little, but Sherlock suspects he might be hoping for New Year wishes, probably from Molly.

Another hour passes, and James turns off the reader with a mutter about stupid cliffhangers and sequels. At this rate, he’ll finish the hundred books Sherlock had loaded on the device before a month has passed – although he might not have quite so much time to read when he starts school in a few days.

“You can get more books if you want to,” Sherlock mentions offhandedly. “It’s already set up for it.”

“Oh. Thanks. But don’t you want me to tell you before I do?”

“The receipts will come to my email. Unless I tell you otherwise, just get what you want.”

Another word of thanks; another quick check to his phone, though this time he grimaces briefly. Maybe Sherlock could send Molly a quick text and mention James would be happy to hear from her.

James returns to his reading, and, within minutes, an email pops up in Sherlock’s inbox. Book two in a series of three is now loaded on James’ account. Sherlock goes ahead and orders book three as well.

Book two, however, doesn’t seem to completely hold James’ attention. Since this morning, his eyes have drifted, every so often, toward the desk, and the file lying there in plain sight. As time passes, he looks at that file more and more often. Sherlock considers asking him if he wants it, but in the end John beats him to it. He comes to the desk, one hand briefly touching the nape of Sherlock’s neck while the other picks up the file. His eyebrows raise questioningly. Sherlock nods. The next second, the file is in James’ lap.

He lays a hand on it but doesn’t open it quite yet, looking at Sherlock, then John, now seated in his armchair.

“Go ahead,” John says. “You’ve been wanting to read that all day.”

James doesn’t deny it. He opens the file and starts reading. Sherlock keeps his eyes on his laptop but he listens to turned pages and reads along in his mind.

The first page is a brief summary of Angela Peters’ life from birth to a month or so prior, Mycroft gave them the highlights. The next two pages are death certificates for her husband and child. Then there’s a brochure for her school. The copy of a newspaper article about her work with special needs children. And at the very back, the last page is a full page picture of her. There’s not much of her in James, except maybe for her smile.

It’s not until the end of their last dinner of the year – courtesy of John’s cooking and surprisingly good – that James asks the question that has obviously been on his mind all along.

“Do you think…” He frowns at the few peas remaining in his plate, pushing them back and forth with his fork. “He didn’t need to marry her just to get her to have a baby. Do you think maybe he… he loved her? Even a little bit?”

_“Do you think… Do you think he loved me? Even just a little bit?”_

It’s the same question he asked months ago on Bart’s roof, and just like then, Sherlock is reluctant to answer with a negative. He can’t honestly say yes either, though.

“I have no idea,” is the best he can offer. “The more time passes, the more I realize I only knew masks he wore, nothing more. I think very little of what I thought I knew about him was true.”

James appears to think about that for a moment, then looks up at John and asks, “What do you think?”

John seems a little startled to be drawn into this conversation, but he answers readily enough after taking a sip of his wine.

“I’ve only met him two, no, three times, and twice he was pretending to be someone else. But, for what it’s worth… If all he wanted out of that marriage was you, what was the point of that ‘insurance’ he arranged for her to receive? He had to care about her at least a little.”

James nods; it’s clear he’d thought about that, too. His next question is trickier still, and voiced in something that’s not much louder than a murmur.

“What I don’t understand… I thought he liked men. I _know_ he liked Sebastian a lot. So why would he care about a woman? Why would he even marry her?”

It’s not the question that takes Sherlock aback, it’s the way James’ voice remains absolutely steady when he says Moran’s name. No hesitation, no slight hitch, not even a thread of anger or pain.

“Things aren’t always that black or white, James,” John says with a barely there smile. 

James blinks twice, his cheeks reddening as it dawns on him whom he’s talking to.

“Oh. I didn’t mean…”

“I know you didn’t. I’m just saying… For some people, ‘clicking’ with someone can be more important than their gender. Maybe there’s something different about her. Something extraordinary. That file certainly hints that she’s very special.”

On the word ‘extraordinary’, John’s eyes flick toward Sherlock. It doesn’t last for more than second, but it makes Sherlock wish midnight and the New Year would come a little early.

“Do you think—” James starts again, but the ringing of Sherlock’s phone stops him. 

The instant worry in his eyes is as clear as the concern in John’s.

Sherlock pulls his phone out and looks at the screen. It’s Lestrade. He knows, before he even picks up, that this is not going to be good. And he’s right.

“Sherlock, I need you to come. We’ve got another body. And another message.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, i am a terrible, horrible tease, i know. ~~Sorry~~


	24. Warnings

“I’ll run away.”

The threat – because of course it’s a threat; what else could it be? – is delivered in a perfectly calm voice. No histrionics, no hint of a rising panic attack. James stands in the sitting room, watching Sherlock tie his shoes, speaking on the same tone he might use to comment on the color of the sky.

Sherlock slowly raises his eyes to him, caught somewhere between anger and sheer bafflement. Coming back from the bedroom where he was grabbing a jumper, John obviously heard and he looks the same way Sherlock feels. After everything they’ve talked about—after the past couple of days—that James would even _think_ of making such a threat is near incomprehensible.

“If you think threatening to do something idiotic is going to change my mind,” Sherlock says coldly, “I’m afraid you don’t know me at all.”

“It’s not a threat,” James says still as calmly. “I’m just giving you a heads up. If you leave me here, I won’t be home when you come back.”

“If it’s about staying with Mrs. Hudson,” John starts, but he falls silent when James scoffs.

“Do you really think an old lady will stop him when he comes to get me?”

Sherlock tugs on his shoe laces to tighten the knot; it’s a wonder they don’t snap between his fingers.

“No one is coming to get you,” he says, standing to his full height in front of James. “And even if _someone_ was coming, the entire street is under constant surveillance.”

James seems thoroughly unimpressed.

“He bought his way into your brother’s people once. What makes you think it was only one person? And if you think I can’t get past them anyway—”

“Wait,” John says, raising a hand palm out to James. “Wait a minute. You think someone’s going to try to kidnap you, so your answer is to run out in the open where they’d have an easier time getting to you if that was what they wanted? That makes no sense whatsoever.”

James looks at him, unfazed. “If I’m out in the open, he won’t need to hurt anyone to get to me.”

The all-encompassing certainty in his words tightens like a vise over Sherlock’s insides. Over the past couple of days, James has been ever so careful to use ’they’ and the past tense. Sherlock should have realized it was too easy and that James was just following the path of least resistance.

Not anymore.

The flitting thought of the handcuffs stashed somewhere at the back of his dresser crosses Sherlock’s mind, followed immediately by disgust. Of course he’s not going to restrain James, not any more than he’d force him to take sedatives to keep him out of the way.

And James knows that, Sherlock realizes as they continue to stare each other down. He means that threat – that warning – but he also knows it’s not going to come to that, because the threat is believable and Sherlock can’t and won’t take that risk.

Striding past James to pick up his coat, Sherlock considers one last option; they could drop James off to stay with Mycroft before they get to Lestrade. But after that pill incident, he’s not sure Mycroft would be all that keen on playing babysitter for an hour or two. He’s going to need a bit of time to get past it, even with the letter Sherlock scanned and sent to him today.

“I want your word,” Sherlock says as he slides on his coat. “This is not going to be a repeat of the warehouse. Whenever I say stop, you _stop_ , and you don’t take one step any further until I say otherwise.”

James’ shrug doesn’t particularly inspire confidence, nor does his nonchalant, “Fine, I promise.”

Still reluctant, Sherlock glances at John, silently asking for his opinion, but John seems as uncertain as he is. Picking up James’ coat, Sherlock holds it out to him, though he doesn’t let go at once when James steps forward and takes it from him.

“Please don’t make me regret this,” he says, only then letting James have his coat.

James doesn’t reply, though for a second his expression changes; it doesn’t soften, not exactly, but his steely determination seems to crack ever so slightly when he gives a shallow nod. 

None of them says a word on the way to the address Lestrade texted Sherlock. The cab driver is unusually chatty, but he soon falls silent when his questions remain unanswered – just like Sherlock’s own.

Lestrade didn’t say if the victim is male or female, and Sherlock, in the moment, didn’t think to ask. For Lestrade to have made the connection with the first crime, even with a message, there has to be something in common. Could it be another unearthed corpse?

No, surely Lestrade would have said it outright if Moriarty’s body had been posed the way Moran’s was.

But who, then?

The first crime scene had a direct meaning for Sherlock and James, but when they get to the unremarkable apartment building, one look at James’ face is enough to ascertain it’s as unfamiliar to him as it is to Sherlock.

Donovan is standing by the building’s entrance, arms crossed and a grim expression on her features. She raises a walkie-talkie to her mouth before they reach her.

“Lestrade. Holmes is here.”

Static crackles when Lestrade answers. “The kid, too?”

“Yes. And Watson.”

“Bring them up.”

Sherlock had no intention to leave James outside, with or without a police escort, but he’s nonetheless a little taken aback that Lestrade is being so accommodating. On their way up two flights of stairs, he gives Sally a close sideways look. She notices and returns it, unsmiling.

“Has Lestrade told you what he and I… discussed when you left the room at the Yard?” he asks, keeping his voice low enough that, maybe, James won’t hear.

Donovan snorts quietly. “Has he told me about your little tantrum, you mean? Yes, he did.”

“And?”

They’ve reached the second landing. She stops for a second and gives him a hard stare. 

“I have my orders,” is all she says, and gestures for all of them to enter the apartment whose door is lined with police tape.

“James will stay outside,” Sherlock says, but Donovan shakes her head.

“The first room is clean. I’ll stay in there with him. Lestrade is waiting for you in the bedroom. Last room down there.”

She gestures toward a corridor. John starts that way, but Sherlock turns to give James a long look.

“I trust I don’t need to remind you that you gave me your word.”

“Whether you needed to or not,” James said blankly, “you just did.”

With that, he sits on the non-descript sofa and pulls out his phone. Sherlock watches him for a moment, already regretting the easiness of their interactions all day long. He notices Donovan observing him and doesn’t care to know what she thinks of what she just heard. Turning on his heel, he strides down the corridor, peering through open doors, taking in facts and already drawing some conclusions, so that he knows, before he enters the crowded bedroom, that the victim is a late-forties to mid-fifties female, living alone, never married, no children.

As soon as he walks in, Lestrade sends his men out, so that only he, Sherlock and John remain – and the dead woman. She’s tied at the wrists and ankles to an armchair, facing a wall on which three words are written in what appears to be nail polish. Dark red on the ivory wall, the words stand out clearly.

 _He is MINE_.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock comes closer, barely listening as Lestrade rambles on about how she was found. There’s a strap of leather across her forehead and tied to the back of the chair, holding her head straight up. Her eyes are still open. There are tear tracks down her cheeks. Her nails – painted in the same dark red – are chipped where she scratched against the wood of the armchair. She’s wearing a dressing gown over a simple skirt and blouse. A tiny, dried up speck of blood on her neck reveals the site of an injection. Sherlock looks at her a little longer, then at the wall, at the dresser within arm’s reach, and finally turns to John.

“Do you want a look?”

John shakes his head. “I already had one. She was injected with something. It might be how she was killed but hard to say without lab results. Dead for at least six hours, I‘d say.”

“That’s what we think as well,” Lestrade says. “Anything else, Sherlock? Anything at all? You haven’t said a single word. You know how I feel about you withholding information.”

“But you apparently have no qualms removing clues that could be helpful to me,” Sherlock shoots back. “Something was on the corner of the dresser. The bottle of nail polish, and something else. Your people removed it and dusted for prints. What was it?”

Lestrade doesn’t so much as blink. He uncrosses his arms and holds out an evidence bag to Sherlock, who takes it at once.

“We found a syringe,” Lestrade says, “and this. We’ll get it properly analyzed and check her blood for it, but they were kind enough to label it for us.”

The glass vial inside the evidence bag is indeed labeled, small cursive letters crammed onto a long, white sticker.

Sherlock’s mouth suddenly feels dry as ash. He holds the bag out to John, who reads aloud.

“Clostridium botulinum. Why does that sound familiar?”

“Carl—” Sherlock starts, and John gets it and finishes with him. “—Powers.”

Of all the ways to kill a person, of all the ways to poison them…

Shaking his head, Sherlock ignores the dead man’s laugh echoing from the deepest recesses of his mind. Someone is playing with their heads. That’s nothing new – and that’s still not Moriarty.

“There was something else,” he says brusquely. “She was positioned close to the wall and forced to keep her eyes on something. Not those words.” Because those words are meant for him, not her. “There’s a small pin hole in the plaster. What did you remove from the wall?”

“I’ll show you in a minute,” Lestrade says coolly. “But before I do answer this. And this time, a bit more truthfully than the last time I asked the question. Did you know her?”

The truth is easier to provide than when the question was about Moran.

“No,” he says simply.

Lestrade scrutinizes him for a moment, then turns the same searching look to John. “What about you, John? Do you know her?”

John shakes his head. “I’ve never seen her in my life. Who was she?”

“Her name was Carol Sanders. Age fifty-two. Currently employed as a nanny for a set of siblings. She was off for a couple of days, was supposed to go back today so the parents could go out and celebrate the New Year. That’s how she was found, when they—”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock cuts in. “The wall. What did you remove?”

He already suspects – started suspecting at the word ‘nanny’, really – so he’s not all that surprised when Lestrade draws a second evidence bag from inside his jacket and shows the picture it contains to him.

The victim is sitting on a park bench, legs crossed primly to the side. Next to her, a young boy sits very straight, clad in a suit that makes him look older than the eight or nine years old he seems to be. She’s smiling at the camera, but the boy looks just as serious on this picture as he does today, right now, sitting in the dead woman’s living room.

“I’m going to ask again,” Lestrade says, now showing the picture to John. “Do you know—”

“Oh, don’t be thick,” Sherlock practically growls. “Put it together. You said yourself she was a nanny. You have a picture of her with James when he was younger. She was his nanny. Do you really need it spelled out for you?”

“Is that something you know,” Lestrade asks, “or something you deduced?”

Sherlock can hear the question he’s not asking quite clearly.

“No,” he says.

“No?” Lestrade repeats.

“No you’re not asking him about her. He hasn’t seen her in years. He can’t possibly have any information relevant to her death.”

For a long moment, Lestrade looks at him as though weighing him – and Sherlock has the distinct impression he’s trying to decide how much to push. 

“So,” Lestrade finally says, “I’m supposed to ignore the fact that this one child knew both victims. And while I’m at it, I’ll pretend those words on the wall don’t refer to him and aren’t addressed to you. And not think at all about the man who, according to you, employed the previous victim and, I suspect, this one as well at some point in time. The same man who has a history of killing using botulinum.”

“He doesn’t know _anything_.”

“I won’t know that until I ask him.”

The most awful suspicion takes hold of Sherlock. Lestrade asked Donovan to bring James up. She said she had her orders. She’s sitting with him right now…

He starts for the door. Lestrade raises a hand to try to stop him, but Sherlock strides past him, throwing the door open and hurrying back to the living room – where James and Donovan are sitting in silence. But then why are the corners of James’ eyes so tight?

“Est-ce qu’elle t’a posé des questions?” Sherlock asks quickly.

_Did she ask you questions?_

James blinks once in surprise before replying in French.

“Non. Est-ce que Mademoiselle Carol est morte?”

_No. Is Miss Carol dead?_

“Hey!” Lestrade strides in, anger radiating from him. “Speak English!”

“James just said her name,” Donovan blurts out. “I’m pretty sure.”

Sherlock ignores both of them.

“Oui, elle est morte. Comment sais-tu que c’est elle?”

_Yes, she’s dead. How do you know it’s her?_

James points at a collage of frames on the wall. One frame is empty. Five more hold pictures of the victim along with different children.

“James, I know you knew this lady,” Lestrade says in a much gentler tone than he used with Sherlock a moment ago. John lays a hand on his arm as though to stop him, but Lestrade goes on anyway. “Do you remember the last time you saw her?”

James looks at him, but it’s Sherlock he addresses, still in French.

“ _Do you want me to answer him or not?_ ”

“Speak English!” Lestrade exclaims again, and it’s oh, so satisfying to continue ignoring him.

“ _You can answer if you want. But whatever he asks, don’t mention your father._ ”

James’ head snaps toward him, his eyes suddenly wide. “ _He knows?_ ”

“ _He thinks he knows. I haven’t told him anything._ ”

James gives a small nod and turns back to Lestrade. “I haven’t seen her in more than three years,” he says calmly.

“She was your nanny?” Donovan says, and it’s only half a question.

“For a few months, yes.”

“Why only a few months?” It’s back to Lestrade, and he seems to be choosing his words very carefully. “Was anyone unhappy with how she did her job?”

A few seconds pass before James finally answers. “I don’t know. She was all right. How did she die?”

It’s Lestrade’s turn to hesitate about whether he should answer. Sherlock is about to do so, but John beats him to it.

“She was poisoned. It would have been very fast.”

Not necessarily true, but James seems grateful for the precision. Lestrade seems ready to ask more questions, but he catches Sherlock’s frown and changes his target.

“Sherlock. No more games. Do you have any idea at all who’s doing this?”

“I don’t. But I’ll tell you who it’s not. It’s _not_ a dead man.”

As he looks around the room, it’s all too obvious that everyone knows whose name he’s not saying. And no one – not even John – fully believes him. And in truth, he understands why they don't.

 _He is MINE_.

How long until he starts doubting himself?


	25. Reasons to Cry

Going home is a somber affair. As the cab weaves its way through London, there is laughter and joy in the streets, fueled by the New Year celebrations, though midnight is still two or three hours away. Inside the cab, however, silence reigns. Sherlock’s mind is like the streets, albeit without the laughter and joy; a chaotic mess.

Some parallels between Moran’s case and this one are obvious enough that even Lestrade noticed them, but for the most part they don’t have much in common. He couldn’t have predicted this woman was in danger. 

Could he? 

Did he miss a clue, a sign, _something_ that pointed toward her, that will point toward the next thing? Just yesterday, James said he thought something more was coming; Sherlock tried to reassure him, but in the end he was right, and it probably won’t end there.

Back in Baker Street, he leads the way up the stairs, still thinking, still trying to make the pieces of the puzzle match, but he can’t figure out the ‘why’ part of the equation, let alone the ‘what next’. Moran’s body was mutilated because of what he did to James, but why did the nanny die? Surely she didn’t do anything like what Moran did.

Sherlock’s stomach turns at the thought. Would James have said it if it had been more than Moran? His father killed one nanny for hitting him once; surely he’d have noticed and stopped another nanny from doing worse than that. And what is Sherlock’s mind coming to if he’s putting his faith in Moriarty?

“Are you okay?”

John’s voice pierces through the cacophony in his head and Sherlock looks away from the peg over which he’s draping his scarf, having already hung up his coat. The question wasn’t meant for him, he quickly realizes, but for James. He’s standing on the landing, his coat undone, his fingers immobile, midway through the act of untying his scarf. He’s looking straight ahead of him though at nothing in particular, and doesn’t snap out of it until John, standing by Sherlock, says his name quietly.

“James? Are you okay?”

Blinking, James turns that vacant stare to John and finishes tugging his scarf and coat off.

“I’m fine,” he says. 

John must hear the same thing Sherlock does, because he doesn’t let go that easily.

“Are you? Really?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” James asks blankly. “I’m warm, I’m healthy, I’m not hungry or thirsty. See? Perfectly fine.”

“There’s more to being fine than that,” Sherlock tries to point out, and receives a scoff for his trouble.

“I’m sure you know all about that,” James mutters before making his way upstairs with a quiet, “I’ll get ready for bed.”

Walking back into the sitting room where they spent such a quiet, nice day only makes James’ parting words sting a little more. John’s hand settles on Sherlock’s back and rubs two slow circles before dropping away. Sherlock considers asking for its return, but bites his lips rather than say anything. He’s not a child. He doesn’t need or want to act or be treated like one.

He settles in front of his laptop and his virtual crime wall while John makes noise in the kitchen, clearing away the evidence of what was a fairly pleasant meal until its abrupt end. Soon, light steps come down the staircase; water runs for a while in the bathroom, then stops. Quiet words of good night, heavier steps walking back upstairs.

It’s only when John closes the laptop in front of him that Sherlock realizes he hasn’t been seeing any of the words or pictures in front of him in quite a while, his mind preoccupied with something else entirely.

_I’m warm, I’m healthy, I’m not hungry or thirsty._

It all came out together, with barely a breath taken throughout. It sounded like something repeated ad nauseam – like a mantra, something James might have said to convince himself he was fine, maybe, when things seemed as far from fine as they could possibly be. That he needs to say it _now_ makes Sherlock feel oddly cold.

“Yes,” John says grimly when Sherlock abandons his internal meanderings to look a question up at him.

“John?”

“Yes you need to talk to him. Now. Don’t wait.”

How John can possibly know what he had been thinking about, Sherlock has no clue. And that isn’t the only thing he doesn’t know.

“I have no idea what to tell him.”

The admission brings a thin smile to John’s lips.

“You never do,” he says with the barest trace of humor in his words. “But somehow you always seem to find what he needs to hear in the end.”

Sherlock isn’t so sure about that himself, but John’s confidence gives him the boost he needs to get out of his chair. The brush of John’s hand returning to his back for a fleeting touch doesn’t hurt either.

By the time he reaches James’ partially closed door, he still doesn’t know what he’ll say, but a light knock and a quiet, “May I come in?” seem like a good start.

He doesn’t get an affirmative. He doesn’t get a no either. What he’s offered instead is a flat, “It’s your home.”

Frowning, he pushes the door open and walks in.

“It’s your home too,” he says as he considers James. “You used to call it that.”

Sitting propped up against the headboard with the covers as far up as they’ll go and a book in his hands, James shrugs and doesn’t look up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He continues to read, or at least pretends to, but his eyes don’t move as fast as they usually do when he’s actually engrossed in a book.

Trying to find his way around words, Sherlock walks over to the window and pushes the curtains open with a finger. He peeks out, but there isn’t much to see, not even stars. He lets the curtains fall closed again and turns back to the room, catching the flicker of James eyes as they return to the book. He’s reordered his bookshelf again. It’s getting pretty full, but they probably can fit another one next to it. That stupid sheep he received for his birthday is on the bottom shelf, crammed into the corner, facing the back of the shelf rather than the room. What that means, Sherlock isn’t sure he wants to know. The meaning of the flakes of dust scattered on the piano keys, on the other hand, is all too easy to divine. James hasn’t played in days – not since they came back to London.

Drawing the chair away from the piano, he turns it around and sits astride it, crossing his arms over the back.

“Talk to me,” he demands.

“And say what?” James says, still not looking up. “You’re the one who came up here.”

“I thought you might need to talk.”

 _That_ finally draws his eyes to Sherlock, though his look is scathing.

“The first day we spent together,” he says coldly, “you said I didn’t need a therapist. Why are you trying to be one now?”

Sherlock’s first instinct is to say he’s trying to be a father, not a therapist, but maybe it’s better to avoid that word right now.

“Because back then,” he says instead, “I never imagined you’d ever see Moran again, or learn your nanny was murdered.”

He couldn’t say if it’s Moran’s name that does the trick or the word ‘murdered’, but James flinches, the first indication that anything is affecting him he’s given since Lestrade’s call.

“You said she was nice to you,” Sherlock tries.

James swallows hard and nods, his façade finishing to break away. 

“She was,” he says quietly. “I liked her. I’m sorry she’s dead but she’s not the first person who died because of me. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

And there is the resignation Sherlock dreaded but expected he’d hear.

“She didn’t die because of you,” he says, keeping his voice as gentle as he can when anger is rising again within him. He can’t have James thinking he’s mad at him, because he’s not. He’s furious that someone, anyone would play with a child’s fragile psyche like this.

“Of course she did,” James sighs. “Don’t you get why he killed her? They. Whatever you want to call the killer. Don’t you understand?”

“They’re playing games with our heads, that’s—”

Snapping his book shut, James leans forward intently. “No. That’s not why she’s dead. _Think_.”

His tone is less than pleasant, but Sherlock doesn’t call him on it.

“She did not… hurt you, did she?” he asks hesitantly.

“No, she never hit me,” James says, completely missing the real question, which is an answer in itself. “But don’t you understand what she did?”

Sherlock is about to shake his head when a thought rises and he finally gets it.

“She was the last of your nannies, wasn’t she? The one who let you go with Moran.”

James nods and leans back against his headboard, holding the thick book to his chest like armor.

“He said Father was dead,” he says, still in that same quiet voice, though it firms up little by little, “and that he would take care of me. She packed her things, she gave me a hug, and then she left. Just like that. She didn’t even know Sebastian really well. She’d only seen him at the house a few times. But she did what he said anyway and left me with him. And that’s why she’s dead now.”

By the time he finishes, he sounds like the young boy who said, months ago, the first day Sherlock took him shopping, that he wished he’d killed Moran himself. Sherlock has to swallow bile back before he can say anything. He doesn’t believe for one second that James wanted that woman dead or that he even thought to blame her before tonight. He’s just slipping into what, once, was probably a much needed defense mechanism: understanding how raging psychopaths think, what will set them off, has to be the best way _not_ to provoke them. But at what cost?

“She made a mistake,” Sherlock says. “People don’t like to think adults are capable of hurting children that way.”

James scoffs. “People are stupid.”

“They often are,” Sherlock offers with a tight smile.

The shadow of a smile answers his own, though it fades quickly. James leans to the side to set his book on the night table, next to his phone. He arranges it just so, lined up with the corner of the table, fiddling with it far longer than necessary. When he sits back again, he doesn’t look up at Sherlock, keeping his eyes on his hands as they clutch the blanket.

“He didn’t start right away,” he murmurs. “Sebastian. At first he didn’t… The cigarettes, yes, but not the other thing. The first time he caught me crying… I was sad about Father and I was crying. I didn’t mean to, I shouldn’t have—”

“Of course you should have,” Sherlock cuts in, almost choking on the words. He hates to interrupt James now, even more so when he doesn’t know what’s prompting this, so soon after James accused Sherlock of trying to play therapist, but he can’t let James cling to that thought. “Of course you were sad. Whether he was a good father or not, he was still your father.”

Long ago, Sherlock would have given a lot for someone, anyone to say those words to him – although he only started understanding that much when James entered his life.

“Sebastian didn’t think so,” James says, now frowning at his hands as they pluck at the covers. “He didn’t like tears. Father doesn’t like them either. He always gets really mad when I cry. And Sebastian… The first time, he got his cigarettes and he burned me. And every time after that, too. He said that way… that way I’d have something to cry about.”

The change to present tense doesn’t escape Sherlock, but he lets it pass for now. There are more pressing matters.

“There’s no shame in tears, James. It’s just our bodies’ way of relieving stress, sadness, fear. All sorts of emotions.”

Still frowning, James looks up and meets his eyes.

“You don’t cry. Even when you thought you’d lost John… Even then you never cried.”

Sherlock remembers those days quite well, and the utter blankness that took him then. He remembers, also, how hard James tried to cheer him up back then.

“Just because you’ve never seen me cry doesn’t mean I never did,” he says. “And it doesn’t mean I think any less of you when you cry.”

Quite the contrary, in fact. Sherlock will always marvel at the fact that James is still capable of emotions after everything he’s been through.

“But I don’t want to cry anymore.” James presses both hands to his face and his next words come out muffled. “I don’t want anyone else to die because of me.”

Getting to his feet, Sherlock tucks the chair back under the piano and gets closer to the head of the bed. There, he pinches the hem of James’ right sleeve between two fingers and tugs lightly.

“James. Look at me.”

Another tug, and James drops his hands, revealing red, gleaming eyes, though no tears – not yet.

“This was _not_ your fault,” Sherlock says as strongly as he knows how without shouting. “None of what is happening is your fault. I don’t even care if you believe it’s him behind all this. Just don’t think it’s your fault. Please. Can you do that for me?”

James blinks a few times and takes two deep breaths before finally nodding. He slides down the bed, lying down, the covers coming up so high that little more than his nose and eyes are exposed.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and starts retreating toward the door.

“I’m sorry I said I’d run away” James blurts out when his back is turned. “But I had to come. I had to know.”

“I understand.” Sherlock glances back. And he truly does understand the need to _know_ quite well. “I’m not happy about you manipulating me like that, but I understand why you did it.”

Standing by the door with his fingers hovering above the light switch, Sherlock hesitates.

“Are you okay?” he asks, because even if it’s a silly question that all too often receives a silly answer, it’s also an important one.

“Are you going to stop him?” James asks rather than answering.

Sherlock would give anything to be able to give a resounding ‘yes’, but now is not the time to boast or lie, even with good intentions. 

“I’m trying my best,” he offers, and flicks the light off.

“Could you… would you play the violin for me?” James asks from under his blankets.

The mere question causes a little bit of the tension Sherlock carries to fade away. This, he can do.

“Of course. Are you coming downstairs?”

“No, I’ll stay here. If you leave the door open, I’ll hear you. It doesn’t have to be all night, just one song, that’s all.”

Sherlock can never do ‘just one song’, but he doesn’t say that.

“Anything in particular?”

James’ answer is immediate. “John’s song please?” After a beat, he adds, “That’s the first real thing I ever heard you play.”

Was it only months ago? Sometimes, Sherlock has a hard time remembering what his life was like without a teen trailing in his path.

“All right. Good night, James”

“Good night Sherlock.”

As he goes back down, Sherlock tries to tell himself it’s stupid to be disappointed James didn’t call him ‘Dad.’ They’ve had a good chat, that’s what matters, isn’t it?

He finds John seated in his chair and nursing a glass of whiskey. A second one waits on the desk, two fingers of gold that might be just what Sherlock needs right now. He takes a small sip before opening his violin case.

“Is he okay?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock brings the violin to his neck, though he doesn’t raise the bow quite yet.

“No, he’s not,” he says, just as quiet, mindful of that open door. “But he will be. We’ll make sure he is.”

John lifts his glass toward him in a silent toast. Sherlock keeps his eyes on him as he starts to play.


	26. Long Overdue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my apologies for the delay. Hopefully the chapter will prove to be worth the wait.
> 
> Also - we're all clear that this fic is rated M, right? Okay then. Enjoy.

_“We don’t have to—”_

_“Sherlock? Shut up?”_

_And so, Sherlock shuts up. He welcomes John’s mouth against his, presses into the hand splayed against his chest, and tries not to let his mind wander and wonder how they possibly got to this particular point at this particular time._

*

When Sherlock finishes playing the first piece, John empties what’s left in his glass in one last gulp and stands. He offers Sherlock a small nod as though to encourage him to keep playing, and walks over to the kitchen. There, he puts the kettle on even as he refills his glass, which at first seems odd, but Sherlock understands when he catches the scent of chamomile as John takes a mug upstairs to James. He soon returns, picks up his glass, and comes back to his chair. 

Sherlock plays another few songs before taking a break. When he does, John asks, “It was my song, wasn’t it? I mean, the very first one. It was the song you wrote for me.”

Playing a few aimless notes, Sherlock goes to his armchair and sits across from John.

“Your song, yes,” he says in between two quiet, slow chords plucked from longer pieces. “James asked for it.”

John slides a little lower in his seat. He rotates his wrist, twirling the scotch in his glass.

“Oh. I thought…”

The gleam in his eyes dims a little and he looks down at his drink, though without taking another sip. 

“You thought?” Sherlock prompts, because he has no idea what’s going on in John’s mind right now.

“I thought maybe you were playing it for me.” His lips twitch toward a self-deprecating smile. “You know. Reminding me that you… care. Romancing me.”

*

_Very, very quietly, Sherlock steps out of the bathroom and into the darkened bedroom. If John’s asleep, he doesn’t want to wake him up. And it’s a good thing only he can hear his own heartbeat, because his heart is pounding so hard that it feels it just might break free._

_He put on pajama pants after his quick shower, but no t-shirt. He has nothing to hide anymore. Nor does he want to hide. Not from John._

_“Sherlock?” John mumbles, sounding half asleep. “I thought you’d be working all night.”_

*

What can’t possibly be called a note rises from Sherlock’s violin: it’s a screech, the likes of which Sherlock usually draws on purpose to annoy Mycroft. Tonight, he’s mortified at the slip of his bow and he lowers it, along with the violin.

“I’m… not sure I have any idea how to… do that,” he all but stammers. “If that’s what you expect from me…”

He trails off when John, mercifully, shakes his head.

“No, no, Sherlock. I don’t expect anything. I don’t expect to be romanced. Christ, I don’t even expect you to come to bed tonight. I know you’ll be thinking about the case all night long. And I know you wouldn’t even be here at all if it wasn’t for James and me.”

He’s… not wrong. If Sherlock had had only himself to think of, he’d have been at the crime scene longer, obtained a sample from the botulinum, and gone to Bart’s after that. Whether any of it would have helped in any way, however, is an altogether different question. Just like it’s unclear whether turning the pieces of the puzzle over and over in his mind will help, but Sherlock has to try, doesn’t he?

*

_“I keep telling James we’re not going to let anyone interfere with our lives,” Sherlock says quietly. “It just occurred to me that it applies to my life, too.”_

_It’s too dark for him to see much more than the outline of John’s body, but oh, what he wouldn’t give to see his face right now…_

_“I mean, like I said, we don’t have to do anything, but if you want to…”_

*

“He’s coming after you next, isn’t he?”

John’s words are so quiet, Sherlock has to replay them in his mind. And even then, they make little sense.

“Why would you think that?” he asks.

“Because it’s the link between Moran and Carol Sanders, isn’t it? They were James’ caretakers. There are other words that come to mind first in Moran’s case, I’ll give you that, but he was still supposed to be his caretaker. And now, you are.”

He frowns when Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Good try,” Sherlock says, “but wrong. They weren’t targeted because of a general role but for specific faults. The mutilation of Moran’s body was clearly retribution for the abuse. As for the woman, she was responsible for allowing Moran to take custody of James. The way she was tied down, forced to look at a picture of him, the tears… I wouldn’t be surprised if the perpetrator told her what she allowed to happen to James before killing her.”

Which begs the question, how much does that person know? Mycroft sent Sherlock the file that had been compiled by his people about James and that was leaked by his employee. The results of STD testing, coupled with a general report about what kind of behavior to expect from a child victim of sexual abuse, left plenty of room for speculation about what happened specifically, but the general idea was clear enough. Given the possessive nature of the message on the woman’s wall, if her killer had known about the abuse, they would presumably have intervened sooner. So, they didn’t know, not until they got information from the mole. But why ask for this information _now_ , why play these games now when James has lived with Sherlock for four months?

The answer comes in a flash. Upstairs, pinned on James’ wall like his picture was pinned on his nanny’s wall…

“Newspapers,” he breathes, his eyes widening.

He blinks, and across from him John’s frown deepens ever so slightly. 

“Newspapers?” John repeats.

“The Daven case, back in October.” Sherlock’s words come out faster as he unravels the string he just plucked up. “The press reported on it. They printed our picture. You, me, and James. Remember how that one article did a whole summary of my past cases, including Moriarty? If someone was looking for mentions of Moriarty in the press, they’d have seen that article. And that picture. Multiple people who’ve seen both James and Moriarty up close have taken an accurate guess at his parentage. The mole in Mycroft’s office started divulging information in early November, after those articles and pictures were widely available. In late November, the mole sent out James’ STD results…”

And that’s when their culprit decided to act, Sherlock would guess. That’s when they realized what had happened to a child they consider theirs and decided to do something about it, however late.

“If they care about James that much,” John says thoughtfully, “if what they want is to get him, why haven’t they tried to kidnap him? It’d make more sense than sending him plush toys or taking revenge on his behalf or leaving messages for you.”

Sherlock has to grimace at that. “Which is why James is so sure he’s going to be taken.”

“But you don’t think so,” John pushes on. “If you did, you wouldn’t let him ride alone. We wouldn’t even be here, would we? Right where everyone knows we live. We’d be hidden somewhere.”

“If the end game was to kidnap him,” Sherlock says with a nod, “why not do so before we were alerted to this person’s existence? Why warn us they’re claiming him? They could still have mutilated Moran’s corpse and killed the nanny once they had James. No, they want him but for whatever reason they don’t want to take him by force. They want him—”

“To go to them of his own choice,” John finishes with a sigh.

And that is one reason why James’ threat worked so well on Sherlock earlier tonight.

“That appears to be the logical explanation, yes. If he goes of his own accord, he’s less likely to try to run away than if he’s kidnapped.”

John raises his glass to his lips and takes a gulp before muttering, “Christ.”

*

_“Christ, Sherlock…”_

_Sherlock pulls back at once at John’s quiet words, lifting his mouth from the edges of the scar he was tracing with his tongue and just a tiny bit of teeth._

_“Not good?” he says, contrite. “I’m sorry, I won’t—”_

*

“Is that why they’re trying so hard to make it look like it’s Moriarty, then?” John asks after a few seconds of silence. “So he’ll want to go to him?”

Sherlock snorts. “If that’s the goal of all this charade, then they really don’t know him at all.”

“You don’t think he’d do it, then? He sounded serious when he said he would today.”

Sherlock’s throat tightens just thinking about it. 

“He didn’t really mean it, because he knew I’d yield,” he replies, hoping more than anything else that he’s right. “But if he believed us to be in danger… I don’t know what he’d do then. I don’t know what he _wouldn’t_ do.”

A fleeting smile touches John’s lips, and he hides it behind his glass. Somehow, Sherlock knows exactly what that’s about. John understands, because there’s little he wouldn’t do if the people he cares about were in danger.

And it’s the same for Sherlock, really. He’s proved it before, to himself more than to anyone else, and he’d prove it again if he had to.

He’s suspecting more and more that he _will_ have to before all this comes to an end.

“Any plans for tomorrow?” John asks as he sets his empty glass on the table.

Sherlock’s attention, for a second or two, remains on that glass. Simple comfort after an unpleasant evening, or was it more than that?

Tomorrow is the first of January, and John did have plans for them for this particular day. If he needs liquid courage to work himself up to it, however…

“We don’t have to do anything,” Sherlock blurts out. “The past few days have been unsettling and certainly not conducive to the kind of reflection you might have wanted to get in the right frame of mind so I perfectly understand if you don’t want…”

He hesitates and finishes his breathless tirade with a rather pitiful, “That.”

*

_“Slow down, God, slow down, please.”_

_“Not good?”_

_“Too good. I don’t want it to end that fast.”_

*

Across from him, John remains absolutely expressionless. His hands are folded over his stomach and he’d seem relaxed if not for the intense look he’s focusing on Sherlock.

“If by ‘that’ you mean sex,” he says in a low voice that somehow sounds very different from the voice he used just a moment ago, “then let me assure you that my hesitation is gone.” His mouth curls on a bitter half-smile. “Nothing like seeing death up close to remember that life waits on no one. But if what you mean is that _you_ don’t want to right now, with everything that’s been happening, then you’re right. We certainly don’t have to do anything. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not until this whole case is over if that’s what you prefer.”

Just as Sherlock opens his mouth to reply – and say what, god only knows because again, John is not wrong; Sherlock has wanted to share this with him for a long time, but not like this, not when they’re both so preoccupied, so worried about what might be coming next – church bells announce the arrival of midnight, and of the New Year it brings along.

“Happy New Year, Sherlock,” John says as he stands.

He leans down to offer Sherlock a kiss, just long enough for Sherlock to taste the scotch lingering on his tongue, and then he’s already pulling away.

“Good night,” he adds. “Try to give that brain of yours at least a little bit of sleep.”

Sherlock can’t manage a word. As John walks away, he lifts his violin and bow again, and quietly, for himself more than anyone else, plays Auld Lang Syne. Music always did help clear his mind, and he really needs that right now.

*

_John._

_It’s more than a thought. More than the sum of the feel of his body, the taste of his skin, the musky scent of him, the quiet breaths and gasps passing his lips, the features Sherlock knows so well he can guess them in the near darkness._

_John._

_Right now, he’s everything._

*

For a long time after the last note has faded in the empty sitting room, Sherlock sits there, his gaze fixed on an empty chair, his mind a little quieter. He wishes John were still there; just talking to him tonight, Sherlock put into words realizations that had been lurking, unresolved, right on the edge of his consciousness, and he has a feeling that he might have needed more time to get there without John. 

Sherlock once called him a conductor of light, and it’s still as true as ever. Maybe if he’d stayed a little longer, Sherlock could have put his finger on that thing that’s been tickling his brain for a little while, like a word on the tip of his tongue that just won’t come. He half closes his eyes and replays his and John’s conversation, but he soon realizes that’s a mistake. His mind is drifting toward the very end of it, to what wasn’t really an invitation but could still be one anyway; an invitation he can’t accept right now, not when this _something_ still eludes him.

He rewinds the evening a little further, back to the nanny’s apartment to examine every detail, every word James uttered, everything Lestrade—

_the man who employed the previous victim and this one_

That’s it. That’s what has been bothering Sherlock since John said the link between both victims were their role as caretaker. No, the link is that they both worked for Moriarty. 

He would have known that much, of course, but he’s dead, so who else would know? Who, years after the fact, would be able to track down the nanny? Not just any of the nannies, but the last one?

_employed_

Employed equals money. 

Foreign bank accounts. Untraceable money. James’ bank account. His refusal to let Moran have access to it. The house in London, bills, taxes and everything else paid to this day by an accountant. Moriarty's extended absences.

The pieces start to fit together, at last.

Moriarty wasn’t always there to pay whoever needed to be paid – so he delegated. To whom?

Moran, a professional killer, dragged a child along with him all over the world when it would have been so much easier for him to travel on his own. What if it was for something more than having a body there to abuse?

Sherlock is on his feet and striding toward the staircase before he even knows he has moved. He didn’t even put down his violin and bow.

He stops with one foot on the first step and freezes. Maybe waking James in the middle of the night to ask him questions about Moriarty and Moran is not the best idea Sherlock ever had.

He returns to the sitting room, puts his violin away, sits at his computer for a while to enter new information, clues and leads on his crime wall.

And then… there’s nothing left to do but wait for morning so he can confirm his theory and move on from there.

Nothing to do but think back on that not-quite-invitation.

Nothing to do but wonder if John is asleep yet.

Nothing to do but remember his words over the past few months. He’s told Sherlock he didn’t need to change. Told him he expects nothing. 

He also said life waits on no one.

For the second time, Sherlock is on his feet before he knows it. This time, he doesn’t stop. He goes to the bathroom and washes up, his nervousness growing in leaps and bounds. Soon, it’s time to get out.

Very, very quietly, Sherlock steps out of the bathroom and into the darkened bedroom. If John’s asleep, he doesn’t want to wake him up. And it’s a good thing only he can hear his own heartbeat, because his heart is pounding so hard that it feels it just might break free.

He put on pajama pants after his quick shower, but no t-shirt. He has nothing to hide anymore. Nor does he want to hide. Not from John.

“Sherlock?” John mumbles, sounding half asleep. “I thought you’d be working all night.”

Sherlock slips into bed, lying on his side facing John though far enough that their bodies aren’t in any danger of touching.

“I keep telling James we’re not going to let anyone interfere with our lives,” he says quietly. “It just occurred to me that it applies to my life, too.”

It’s too dark for him to see much more than the outline of John’s body, but oh, what he wouldn’t give to see his face right now…

“I mean, like I said, we don’t have to do anything, but if you want to…”

He clears his throat. This sounded a lot better when he rehearsed it in his own head.

“We don’t have to—” he starts again, but John stops him with words and touch.

“Sherlock? Shut up?”

And so, Sherlock shuts up. He welcomes John’s mouth against his, presses into the hand splayed against his chest, and tries not to let his mind wander and wonder how they possibly got to this particular point at this particular time. Better to wonder where else he could kiss and taste John.

Along his jaw, first; he shaved. He normally shaves in the morning. He didn’t think Sherlock would join him, but he hoped so, maybe.

Down his neck; his pulse is as fast, as wild as Sherlock’s.

No t-shirt; another clue that he might have been hoping he wouldn’t sleep alone – or would do more than sleep.

Across his shoulder; hints of soap and sweat, and goose bumps under Sherlock’s tongue.

The same goose bumps that are coursing down Sherlock’s back as John’s hands explore Sherlock’s skin, fingertips grazing against a nipple one second and coasting over his rib and to his back the next. He touches the long lines carved there at the same time as Sherlock slides down to John’s own scar

“Christ, Sherlock…”

Sherlock pulls back at once at John’s quiet words, lifting his mouth from the edges of the scar he was tracing with his tongue and just a tiny bit of teeth.

“Not good?” he says, contrite. “I’m sorry, I won’t—”

John pushes against him, lying half on top of him, claiming his mouth again with a kiss that leaves Sherlock breathless—a kiss that somehow bypasses his brain entirely and demands that his hips press up against John and find friction.

“Not complaining,” John breathes against Sherlock’s mouth. “Really not.”

And his hips, bucking right back against Sherlock’s, make that point achingly clear.

Sherlock pushes back against him until they’re side by side again, but much closer this time, chest against chest, prick against prick, and even the two layers of fabric between them don’t begin to hide that John is just as hard as Sherlock – that he wants this just as much.

They get the same idea at the same time, and at the second Sherlock lays a gentle, barely-there hand on John’s cock, John’s hand cups his own. There’s stroking, and a couple of harsh breaths, and a convergence of minds again when they divest each other of their sleepwear. The next touches are skin to skin, and Sherlock has to bite down on his own lips to stop a too loud moan from escaping him. Even so, he lets out a small sound, which is all but swallowed by John’s mouth, his tongue running soothingly against the indentation of Sherlock’s teeth in his own lip.

With his brain short-circuiting from sensations he hasn’t felt in – he doesn’t even remember how long – Sherlock can’t seem to do more than hold John’s burning flesh in his hand while John… John…

“Slow down,” Sherlock all but whimpers, his body betraying his very words and arching into John’s tight fist. “God, slow down, please.”

John does, though he doesn’t stop, long strokes that spread down Sherlock’s pre-ejaculate, that touch every last inch of him, that make him want more even as he begs for less.

“Not good?” John asks, pressing the words against Sherlock’s throat.

“Too good.” Sherlock’s voice shakes so much, he’d be embarrassed if he could only think. But he _can’t_ think right now, not beyond one small, simple thought.

John.

It’s more than a thought. More than the sum of the feel of his body, the taste of his skin, the musky scent of him, the quiet breaths and gasps passing his lips, the features Sherlock knows so well he can guess them in the near darkness.

John.

Right now, he’s everything.

“I don’t want it to end that fast,” he adds, struggling not to stammer. “I want… I want it to be good for you. There’s… there’s lubricant in the night table. You’ll have to go slow because I’ve never been on this side of things but—”

Once again, John stops him with a kiss; this one is hard enough that their teeth clash together. John’s fist has come to a complete stop at the base of Sherlock’s prick and it stays there, hot and tight.

“If you’ve never, why…” John’s throat clicks as he swallows. “I’ve never done either. At least you’d know what you’re doing.”

The idea zings through Sherlock’s mind, down his spine, straight to his balls. Hot and tight. Hotter and tighter. And for the first time someone under him who would be more than a body. More than data.

But it’s also the first time he has someone with him he’d trust enough to let in; after all, he already let him in his mind and heart.

“I figured…” His mouth is dry and he licks his lips before going on. “I figured you’d be more comfortable giving than receiving.”

For long, interminable seconds, John remains as still as he is silent. Finally, he releases Sherlock and rolls away. It’s all Sherlock can do not to clutch at him and draw him back. He returns soon enough, thankfully, after the sounds of wood sliding against wood, the quiet snick of the lube cap being flicked open then closed again.

“Give me your hand,” he whispers, and for a moment Sherlock is confused, unsure why John is smearing lubricant against his palm, why he’s shifting against Sherlock until their cocks are aligned rather than telling him to get on all fours.

And then their pricks touch, and John’s hand presses them closer together, and he urges quietly, “Your hand, love,” and oh, it all suddenly makes sense. Their fingers entwine. Their cocks fit just right within the circle of their joined hands, just like their mouths fit just right, together again. And if this isn’t what Sherlock had in mind for their first time, it’s fine. It’s all fine. Better than fine, really. Completely and utterly perfect, right to the shared end that leaves them both spent, breathless, and content beyond words.

Except for a few words that feel horribly cliché right now but that Sherlock can’t seem to hold back. That’s fine, too; they were long overdue.

“I love you,” he whispers against John’s temple, and gets another long, slow kiss for all reply.


	27. No Promises

It’s still very early when Sherlock wakes. Loathe to awaken John, he tries to remain still against him, but the lure of quiet sounds in the kitchen is hard to resist. Very, very carefully, he wriggles out from under John’s arm. John ends up snuffling into his pillow and turning over, but he doesn’t wake. Gathering clothes in the dark, Sherlock walks into the bathroom with a last glance – a last half-smile – toward the bed and its occupant. 

A lot of things happened yesterday. Some, he’ll delete as soon as it’s safe to do so. Others…

Others will be engraved into titanium sheets in his mind palace so that they can endure until the day he dies.

When he comes out of the bathroom a little while later, the kettle is still steaming, but the kitchen is empty. It doesn’t take him long to find James, standing in front of the sitting room window with a mug in one hand. He’s wearing one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns on top of a suit, Sherlock sees when James half-turns toward him.

“Is this okay?” he asks right away, waving one hand and the too-long sleeve that falls over it. “I was cold.”

“That’s fine. We’ll get you one that fits you better.”

Walking over to the fireplace, he crouches down next to it. When he stands again, the flames are soaring high, though it’ll be a little while before the sitting room warms up. It does feel colder in here than usual. A look at the windows makes it clear why: it must be frigid outside, the glass is covered in frost thick enough that the street is little more than blurry shapes. And still, James is staring out as though he can actually see outside.

“Why don’t you sit down by the fire?” Sherlock says quietly. “You’ll warm up in no time.”

James doesn’t answer. He doesn’t seem to have heard Sherlock at all. He startles when Sherlock lays a hand on his shoulder, but lets Sherlock guide him to the leather armchair, and lets him take the empty mug from him. In the kitchen, Sherlock refills the mug and pours a second one for himself. When he returns, he gets his first good look at James’ face – at his eyes – and one thing is immediately obvious.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asks, handing James his mug back and sitting across from him in John’s chair.

James cups both hands around the warm porcelain and shrugs lightly. 

“A bit.”

Cringing internally, Sherlock clears his throat before asking, “Did we… did the noise bother you?”

James blinks and frowns briefly. “The noise? You mean the violin? No, that was nice. Thank you.”

There’s no sign in his eyes or in his voice that he understood Sherlock was hinting at a very different kind of noise. That’s good. That’s very good. Sherlock is fairly certain they were quiet the first time, but he’s not so sure about the second one. He’s glad _that_ ’s not what kept James up last night, although the alternative is not much better.

Taking a sip of tea, he thinks back on what he wanted to ask James last night. In front of James’ haunted eyes, it doesn’t seem so important anymore. But without that information and the breakthrough it might provide, James might have many more sleepless nights.

“I need to ask you something,” he says after a few moments of silence. “I don’t want to upset you, but I’m fairly certain I will. I’m sorry.”

Dark eyes stare at him flatly. James says nothing, though he gives a shallow nod.

“I’ve been wondering about something. You told me Moran wanted access to your bank account but you kept it from him. Did he have money troubles?”

A few seconds pass before James answers, and when he does it’s in a cool, expressionless voice.

“Sometimes. There were places where he had trouble receiving money.”

“Receiving money from whom?”

“I don’t know. I mean… Someone who works for Father, but I don’t know who exactly.”

“Could it be the same person you said pays the bills for the house?”

James shrugs. “Maybe.” He takes a long sip from his tea and looks down into the mug as he continues. “Every couple of months, he’d have me hold a newspaper from wherever we were at that time and take a picture. And then a few days later he’d pick up money in a wire transfer place.”

His head snaps up and his eyes grow wide.

“What if he was sending them to Father? What if he was proving him I was still alive like I was his… his… hostage or something, and then Father would send him money?”

Sherlock starts shaking his head before James is even finished.

“Even if I believed your father is alive, I would never believe he’d knowingly leave you with Moran. If he’d known where to wire the money, he’d have known where to find you.”

“But if he didn’t know that Sebastian… if he thought I was safe…”

He falls silent and looks down into his mug again. One of his hands rises and rubs absentmindedly along his clavicle, where small scars remain. He doesn’t add another word, and Sherlock doesn’t try to argue the point. He’s not going to convince James, not without some concrete proof. Antagonizing him is useless.

“I have another question,” he says quietly. “Do you know how your nannies were paid? Did they get cash or cheques or…”

He trails off when James shrugs again.

“I don’t know. Why does it matter?” James looks up and observes Sherlock, his head tilted to one side. “You’re going to track down who paid them.”

Standing, Sherlock sets his empty mug on the desk and picks up his phone. 

“Yes and no. If I had time to run around, I’d track that person myself. But as things are, I think it’ll be a lot faster to ask Mycroft.”

He does so with a few taps of his fingers even as he answers James.

_Did you ever look into who paid the taxes, electricity, etc for Moriarty’s house in London?_  
 _I suspect same person also paid Moran for past 3 years –_  
 _And nannies before that [incl. Carol Sanders, murdered yesterday]_  
 _SH_

After hitting send, he considers the phone for a moment and finally sends another, shorter message before sitting down again.

_Happy New Year_

He hasn’t talked to Mycroft in a few days. Being cordial might help.

“Is Mycroft going to help?” James asks, apparently thinking along the same lines as Sherlock. “What if he’s still mad? Did he say anything about my letter?”

Mycroft wasn’t mad, Sherlock thinks, remembering his last visit. He was embarrassed – which, for Mycroft, is considerably more worrisome than mad. But even if he’s still upset, it shouldn’t be enough to stop him from helping. 

“He didn’t mention it,” he says. “But Mycroft has years of practice in getting over things. Why don’t you give him a call to give him your wishes for the New Year?”

James blinks slowly. “Oh. I forgot. Happy New Year.”

He says the words almost by rote, it seems, as though he doesn’t believe there’ll be anything happy about this year.

“Happy New Year,” Sherlock repeats with more conviction. “And it _will_ be good, James. I know things look bad right now but I pro—”

“Don’t promise,” James interrupts him, practically jumping to his feet. “Please don’t promise me anything.”

 _Don’t make a promise you’ll have to break_ , his pleading eyes ask, and Sherlock has no idea what to answer to that.

*

By the time John joins Sherlock in the sitting room, the fireplace has long since chased the cold away, but it’s not the flames that cause warmth to flood Sherlock. He thought the morning after might be awkward, but there’s no self-consciousness in John when he comes to the desk where Sherlock is working for a quick good morning kiss.

Well. It starts as a quick kiss, but it does seem to linger a bit more than their kisses usually do. If it’s the beginning of a new trend, Sherlock doesn’t exactly mind. More data is definitely needed.

“You’re alone?” John finally asks, resting a hand briefly on Sherlock’s shoulder before walking back to the kitchen. “I thought I heard voices.”

“James was down here. He went back to his room.”

Sherlock’s eyes are still on his computer, though he’s not seeing much of his crime wall anymore. He knows every piece of it, from the ones he added last night to the first one – a still image from that video that started it all. Right now, the important thing is what’s not on his screen yet. Mycroft has yet to reply to his messages, which could simply mean he’s busy. Or it could mean that James was right and…

No. Sherlock refuses to believe that Mycroft would refuse him his help, not for something as important as this. As complicated as their relationship has been, Mycroft only failed Sherlock once, and that was where Moriarty was concerned. He’s not going to repeat that mistake with whoever is trying to pass themselves as Moriarty.

“Sherlock? Did you hear me?”

Blinking, Sherlock draws himself out of his thoughts to find John sitting across from him with a mug and a plate of toast. When he returned, Sherlock has no idea.

“What are you thinking about that intently?” John asks, and immediately corrects himself. “The case, of course. Anything in particular?”

Sherlock picks up his phone and pointlessly checks for new messages. Nothing.

“I asked Mycroft’s help finding someone but he has yet to reply.”

“Finding who?”

Sherlock is about to answer when the doorbell rings twice. Sherlock is on his feet in an instant and bounding down the steps. He’s expecting to find his brother on the threshold, and is thoroughly disgruntled that it’s Lestrade standing there. He’s so disgruntled, in fact, that after one look to ensure a new crime scene hasn’t been discovered – fresh clothes, closely shaved, rested eyes, traces of sugar powder from a donut on his shirt: Lestrade had time to go home and sleep, definitely nothing new – Sherlock slams the door shut again on Lestrade before either of them says a word. He starts back up the stairs, his annoyance redoubling when he hears the door open behind him and Lestrade follow him.

“Hello to you too,” he says to Sherlock’s back. “And happy New Year. Always so nice to receive such a warm welcome from you.”

Sherlock huffs and ignores him. Back in the sitting room, he flings himself into the sofa under John’s amused gaze.

“I’d say it’s nice to see some things never change,” he says with a grin, “but I can’t say the tantrums are my favorite bit of you.”

“Lestrade is here to bore me to death,” Sherlock says. “Am I supposed to be happy about it?”

“Who says I didn’t stop by to offer my best wishes?” Lestrade asks as he comes in. “Good morning, John. Happy New Year.”

Either John doesn’t see through the ploy or he doesn’t care. Standing up, he goes to shake Lestrade’s hand and returns his greeting. It’s all Sherlock can do not to groan in disgust.

“There,” he says instead, sitting up and glaring at Lestrade. “Your wishes were received and returned. You can leave.”

But, as Sherlock expected, Lestrade doesn’t leave. Worse, he takes off his coat, sits down, and accepts the offer for a cup of coffee. Sherlock’s glare turns to John, who answers with a roll of his eyes.

“Play nice,” John admonishes him as he returns with Lestrade’s coffee. “Because something tells me if you don’t, the next time we talk to Greg, it’ll be at Scotland Yard and in a much more official way. Am I wrong, Greg?”

Lestrade’s grimace answers for him. So, John is not as oblivious as he seemed. Good. That’s good. Even if Sherlock has no intention of ‘playing nice’, whatever that means.

“You don’t want me to talk to James,” Lestrade says after taking a sip of coffee. “I can accept that. At least for now. But you have to talk to me, Sherlock. I know there are things you’re not telling me. I’m not an idiot.”

Sherlock scoffs at that. Loudly.

“Has it occurred to you that maybe I don’t want to trouble you with everything I know precisely _because_ you’re an idiot?”

Sitting on the sofa near Sherlock, John clucks his tongue.

“We know everyone’s an idiot to you, Sherlock,” he says mildly. “No need to get into that. Maybe Greg and you can help each other. That thing you wanted Mycroft to help with? Could Greg help instead?”

On the desk, Sherlock’s mobile is still silent. It’s been more than an hour since Sherlock texted Mycroft. Almost two. He’s never taken that long to acknowledge a message before. Even if he needs time to find the person who had access to Moriarty’s money, he should have texted back to say his people were working on it.

A sudden idea flashes through Sherlock’s mind and he’s on his feet at once. It’s a ridiculous idea, he thinks as he dials Mycroft’s number. Completely ridiculous. Mycroft hasn’t done anything to hurt James.

_He is MINE._

He hasn’t done anything, except for making James Sherlock’s son.

Sherlock’s thumb slips and he has to starts dialing again.

No. He’s being silly. Even if their murderer held James’ new birth certificate against him, Mycroft is under constant protection. No one would ever get to him.

But what if someone did, Sherlock can’t help but ask himself as the phone rings. And keeps ringing.


	28. Why

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit on the short side, but hopefully the quick posting makes up for that.

The phone rings seven times.

It feels like seven hours.

And Sherlock, quite incomprehensibly, feels about seven years old.

He grips the back of a chair with one hand, aware that Lestrade and John are watching him, that John is asking him something, but words don’t make much sense right now – and neither does the continued ringing of that bloody phone.

Just as Sherlock is about to hang up and try Anthea’s number – a number he’s never called but always kept just in case – the call is picked up.

“What?” Mycroft snaps, his tone uncharacteristically impatient.

Sherlock lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Relief and anger flood him and he has to sit or risk wavering on his feet.

“I texted you two hours ago,” he says in the iciest voice he possesses. “Would it have killed you to text me back?”

“I’ve been busy. I still am. What do you want?”

_To know you’re okay, which you are, so piss off._

“Are your people looking for—”

“He’s in front of me,” Mycroft interrupts. “Like you thought. Same man who paid Carol Sanders’ salary three years ago, who paid bills relating to the house on Knightsbridge Street. He also has a dozen pictures of James in his email, and each of them appears to correspond with a wire transfer that was executed toward a variety of aliases, some of which are known to have been used by Sebastian Moran.”

Sherlock is struck speechless. He didn’t expect to be right about everything. He didn’t expect the man to be found that quickly, and to yield information that easily. And he certainly didn’t expect Mycroft to go look for him in person.

“You’re doing legwork?” he asks, managing a sneer. “Is that a New Year resolution?”

“It’s a regrettable necessity when my staff get infiltrated, my family is threatened, and the only lead we have was trusted with their finances by nine current members of parliament, two former Prime Ministers and four minor members of the royal family. In addition to one master criminal, of course.”

Out of all that, several things would give Sherlock pause, but he focuses on just one. “Was? He’s dead?”

He regrets the question immediately when Lestrade perks up, no longer pretending he’s not listening to every word.

“Correct,” Mycroft says. He must cover the phone with his hand because his next words are muffled, addressed to someone else. “Two days at least,” he says after a couple of seconds, “possibly three.”

“Where are you?” Sherlock asks, already standing. “I’ll come and—”

“There’s no need. My people are processing the scene.”

“Mycroft—”

“There’s no need, Sherlock. Whatever there is to find, we’ll find it.”

Sherlock knows that tone. And he knows Mycroft won’t budge, regardless of any tantrum or blackmail Sherlock might throw his way. He changes tracks.

“How did he die?”

“Hard to say,” Mycroft says with a quiet sigh. “Best guess before autopsy is some kind of poison.”

Poison. Of course. Sherlock would bet just about anything it’ll be the same poison as in the ‘study in pink’ case.

“And… the message?”

The pause before Mycroft answers is more telling than his guarded question.

“The message? What message is that supposed to be?”

“Don’t even _try_.” Sherlock all but scoffs. “The message, Mycroft. What does it say?”

Another pause, and Mycroft yields.

“It says ‘Let him come to me.’”

Sherlock takes in a sharp breath.

“Indeed,” Mycroft says dryly. “If those are all the questions you have, I’ll hang up now. I’ll come to Baker Street in the afternoon.”

When Sherlock turns off his phone and pockets it, he sits down at once in front of his computer and adds to his wall, processing every piece of information he just acquired – including the new piece of message, putting it in chronological order. Two or three days, Mycroft said; so, before the nanny.

_Sherlock Holmes_   
_Let him come to me._   
_He is MINE._

The message is clear enough. After the threat James uttered yesterday, it’s even more chilling.

Still, there’s something interesting about that last bit: _come to me_ , not come _back_. 

“Sherlock.”

Judging from John’s tone, it’s at least the third time he’s said Sherlock’s name. Sherlock blinks out of his thoughts and looks up at him.

“Who’s dead?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock shrugs. “Moriarty’s accountant. Or banker. Mycroft didn’t really say. Presumably the person who helped the killer find Carol Sanders. He was killed before her. He went from Moran to the accountant to her.”

Only when Lestrade stands does Sherlock remember he and John aren’t alone – and realize he just said too much.

“Okay, forget about playing nice,” Lestrade says, arms crossed over his chest and feet planted solidly apart. His voice is notably louder – as though that ever made Sherlock comply. “I want everything you have and _now_ , or we’re done. You said you wouldn’t work with me if I talked to James. It can go both ways, you know. I’m not working with you anymore unless you start talking.”

Sherlock considers him coldly. “Technically, you did question him yesterday, over my objections.”

Lestrade snorts. “As though he would have said a word to me without your say so.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds. The fire crackles gently behind Sherlock. The stairs creak. John finally breaks the silence with an exaggerated sigh.

“Just tell him, Sherlock. It’s not about who solves this case. It’s about the case ending before anyone else gets hurt. Can we all agree on that?”

He says _before anyone else gets hurt_ but his eyes, flicking briefly toward the ceiling, give another meaning to his words.

Before James gets hurt.

Before James gets taken – or before he goes on his own, more or less willingly.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock pushes one corner of his laptop and turns it toward Lestrade.

“Can you read?” he sneers. “Or do you need me to go over every little thing with you?”

In the end, Sherlock does have to go over his little collage with Lestrade, because apparently his abbreviations and logic leaps make no sense to anyone else. He notices that Lestrade is very careful not to prod too much whatever relates to James; maybe he’s not as stupid as Sherlock likes to accuse him of being. For that much, at least, Sherlock is grudgingly grateful.

“And that banker or accountant or whatever it was,” Lestrade says finally, scribbling in his small notebook, “where was he found?”

“No idea.”

Lestrade checks his phone, but there’s no missed call or messages. 

“I should have been called in for something like that. Your brother _is_ going to call in the authorities, isn’t he?”

Sherlock doesn’t so much smile as bare his teeth. “You don’t understand, I’m afraid. My brother _is_ the authorities. Why would he call in Scotland Yard when his people can do a far better job than your so-called forensics team?”

Lestrade is still mildly offended when he leaves a little while later. John rolls his eyes at Sherlock, but his small smile voids his look of reproach. He doesn’t voice it either, and instead asks, “Are you going to tell James? About the accountant I mean.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No need. He’s been listening since Lestrade demanded to know everything I know.”

John looks taken aback, although really, by now, he should know about James’ eavesdropping habit.

“You knew?” he asks, walking out to the landing and looking up the stairs. He comes back with James in tow.

“You knew,” James echoes, “and you let me listen to all that?”

“When have I ever hidden things from you?” Sherlock retorts.

James plops himself on the sofa. He’s not wearing the dressing gown anymore. His tie is knotted perfectly.

“So you’d have told me about the accountant?” he challenges.

“If I was going to hide things from you, I’d have started a while ago. It seems rather pointless now.”

Silence stretches between them. For a moment, it looks as though James is about to say something, but it’s finally John, standing halfway between them, that puts an end to the tension in the most practical way.

“It’s just about lunch time. Any preferences?”

*

As promised, Mycroft comes to the flat early in the afternoon. However, he’s not there to talk about the accountant as Sherlock expected; there’s nothing more to know than he already told Sherlock over the phone.

What he is there to discuss leaves Sherlock speechless for a second. A quick look to John reveals he’s just as surprised. Mycroft looks back and forth between them and lets out sigh.

“I take it he didn’t discuss this with you,” he finally drawls. 

“When did he discuss it with _you_?” Sherlock asks, barely managing to form a coherent sentence when his mind is throwing at him all the reasons why this is a horrible idea.

Mycroft plucks at a crease in his trousers as he replies, the very picture of serenity. 

“This morning.”

“He called you?” John asks.

“Texted.”

Sherlock snorts. “And you had time to answer him?” he asks pointedly, still annoyed at how ridiculously worried he was when Mycroft didn’t answer him.

Mycroft only gives a small shrug. His lips are pinched in a not-quite smile that hints he knows exactly what Sherlock is thinking.

Standing from his chair, Sherlock stalks to the landing and calls up James’ name. When he hears his door, he goes back in, and this time sits on the sofa near John. They wait for James to come in. He stops when he sees Mycroft, as though understanding what this is about, then squares his shoulders and comes to sit in Sherlock’s empty chair. 

“Mycroft tells us you still intend to start school tomorrow,” John says, much more calmly than Sherlock could have managed. 

James offers a single nod for an answer.

“Like I told James, the school is already under protection because of a couple of high profile students, and—”

“You can’t possibly be serious,” Sherlock snaps. “Just yesterday you threatened to run away. You _said_ you think someone plans to kidnap you—”

“And you said you don’t think anyone will,” James cuts in. “You said my bodyguards are enough. And Mycroft said they’ll be there on my way to school and back, and the school is secure, so why not?”

From where Sherlock stands, the question is not why not. Since Mycroft put that silly idea in his mind, James has been dead set on going to school and Sherlock just can’t understand it.

“ _Why_ is what I want to know,” Sherlock says. “With everything that’s going on, do you really think you’ll be able to focus on lessons?”

James stares at him unflinchingly. 

“What I think is that with everything that’s going on, I _need_ something else to focus on. Why do you think I spend all my time reading? If I think about it, about him…” 

His voice breaks and he swallows hard. 

“I need something else to focus on,” he repeats quietly, dropping his eyes to his hands, clenched on his knees.

All of Sherlock’s objections pretty much vanish at that point. How can he say no, really? He knows how unsettled James has been since his birthday. Unsettled enough to steal sleeping pills, to withdraw from Sherlock and John, to issue a threat.

Still, he hates the idea of it, hates that James will be away for hours at a time. Riding was one thing; Mycroft’s men were with him the whole time. But they won’t be able to accompany him inside the school, will they?

“Security measures,” Sherlock says, addressing his brother. “On the way there and back, inside and outside the school. Tell me everything.”

And so Mycroft tells him. How many men, what they will be armed with, their instructions, the car that will take James to school, the CCTV around the block, the security system inside the school itself. Sherlock asks a few questions, and so does John, until they’re both satisfied – or as satisfied as they can be, given the circumstances. The entire time, James listens attentively, but he doesn’t say a word.

Sherlock thinks he’s trying to convince himself that he’ll be safe; regardless of whether he wants to go to school or not, surely he must be apprehensive about it, the same way he was the first time Sherlock took him riding.

It’s almost exactly twenty-four hours later that Sherlock realizes James’ attentiveness had an altogether different goal, and by then it’s too late to do anything but curse himself for being so slow. 

James wasn’t trying to reassure himself. He was listening so he’d know exactly how to escape Mycroft’s surveillance.


	29. First Day Jitters

Breakfast feels very domestic. So domestic, in fact, that it’s almost strange. Sherlock stands from the kitchen table with his cup of coffee in one hand and fastens the buttons of his jacket with the other.

“Do you have everything you need?” he asks, his eyes briefly drifting to the bulging leather schoolbag waiting at the foot of the table.

“Yes,” James says, then takes a bite of toast. He swallows, then lifts a frown to Sherlock. “Wait, no. I don’t have gym clothes. I forgot all about those.”

As Sherlock sips on his coffee, John answers in his stead. He’s seated across from James and still in his pajama and dressing gown, while James is in his school uniform, the striped tie as perfectly knotted as ever. The contrast is jarring.

“You don’t have a physical education class.”

James’ frown redirects towards him. “It’s on the schedule they sent. Last class today.”

“My mistake,” Sherlock says. “I forgot to tell you. When I sent in the last of the enrollment paperwork I indicated you have a medical condition that prohibits exertion. You’re supposed to talk to the counselor to see what class you might take to fill in the free time.”

It’s more than surprise that widens James’ eyes. It’s sheer bafflement.

“Why did you tell them that?” 

“I thought,” Sherlock starts, but stops at once, glancing at John. 

John is the one who first brought it up, and Sherlock immediately saw his point.

“ _We_ thought you might not be too keen on having to change clothes in front of your classmates.”

For three inexplicably interminable seconds, James stares at Sherlock. When he finally turns his attention back to his breakfast, it’s without a word. John meets Sherlock’s eyes; he seems just as taken aback by James’ reaction as Sherlock is.

“If we were wrong—”

James interrupts Sherlock, though without looking up.

“No. You weren’t,” he says, and, after a marked beat, adds, “Thank you.”

Sherlock walks over to the sitting room and peers out of the window. It’s still dark, whatever sunlight there already is muted by heavy clouds. A few cars pass by, though none stops.

“Be sure to text me if anything is amiss,” Sherlock says, pacing back toward the kitchen. “Or if you decide you don’t want to attend school after all.”

 _That_ draws a half-smile to James’ lips. “I’m not going to change my mind now. And I’m not supposed to keep the phone with me anyway. I have to keep it in my locker. It says so in the rules handbook.”

Sherlock huffs and passes behind John to go set his empty mug in the sink.

“Who cares about rules? Keep the phone.”

“Sherlock,” John says, reproachful. “You’re going to get him in trouble on his first day.”

Rolling his eyes at him, Sherlock crosses the kitchen again, walking back to the window.

“I’m not saying be _obvious_ about it,” he says with another huff.

“Don’t listen to that,” John says. “Follow the rules.”

Annoyed at being so blatantly contradicted, Sherlock throws John a glare over his shoulder. John’s only answer is to raise an eyebrow at him. James watches the proceedings with something that might be a cross between wariness and curiosity. Swallowing back his acidic retort, Sherlock peers out the window again. His stomach executes a rather annoying little flip when he sees the black car parked there, at the very moment his phone buzzes in his pocket. He gives it a cursory glance, though he knows what it says. This morning’s code is ‘Mercury’.

“The car is here,” he says, and this time his steps take him to the hallway and his coat hanging there. “John, I’m assuming you’re not coming?”

Given his state of dress, it seems rather obvious. Just as it should be obvious that Sherlock is going, seeing how he’s slipping his coat on, and still James asks, sounding horrified, “You’re not coming, are you?”

“Yes I am,” Sherlock says dryly. “It’s your first day and I want to make sure—”

But James doesn’t care that Sherlock wants to have an in-person look at the security measures that will protect him. Pushing past him, he grabs his own coat while sighing in a rather exaggerated manner.

“Come on, I’m not a little kid. You’re just going to embarrass me in front of everyone.”

“I didn’t realize you found my company embarrassing,” Sherlock replies.

He must not manage to keep out of his words how much he was stung by that remark, because John gives him a sympathetic look across the kitchen, while James sighs again.

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… isn’t it primary school kids that have their parents hold their hand to the gate? I don’t want everyone to think I’m a baby or something. Especially not on my first day.” After a second, he adds, meeting Sherlock’s eyes full on, “Please, Dad.”

Sherlock’s stomach flips again, and just as unpleasantly as moments earlier. Very slowly, he tugs his scarf free, hangs it up, then his coat next to it.

“I would appreciate it,” he says calmly, keeping his voice low, “if you refrained from using that word simply because you think it’ll get you what you want.”

He doesn’t look at James on his way back to the window. The car is still there, idling by the curbside.

“Your driver’s waiting,” he says without turning back.

“Sherlock… I didn’t mean—”

“I know perfectly well you didn’t mean it,” Sherlock cuts in. “Go. Learn something. Try not to be too bored.”

But still, there’s no sound of steps behind him. Trusting that his expression is neutral enough, Sherlock turns around, ready to remind James he’s the one who wants to do this ridiculous school thing.

“I didn’t mean to upset you is what I’m trying to say,” James blurts out.

He looks stricken. Did he not imagine what consequence his words might have? It’s not like him to speak without thinking. Maybe he thought he could sham better than he does. He’s never fooled Sherlock before, so why would he try now?

Unless he did and Sherlock didn’t realize it?

“I’m not upset,” he says. “You’re going to be late.”

And still James doesn’t move, standing on the threshold with his bag in one gloved hand, ready to go but not going yet. Just steps away from him, still seated at the table, John looks back and forth between the two of them, his lips pinched into a thin line.

“I… I’ll keep the phone with me, okay?” James says, and it’s like an offer of peace. “So you can text me if you want and I’ll try to answer without getting caught.”

When Sherlock gives him a small nod, James finally starts to turn away, though he soon looks back at Sherlock.

“I really am sorry,” he murmurs.

Sherlock nods again. “It’s fine,” he says. “Go. Don’t be late. Make some friends.”

After another second of hesitation and a quiet, “Bye,” James walks away. Sherlock peers down into the street again, and only moves away from the window after James has climbed into the car. Shrugging out of his jacket, Sherlock throws it over the back of a chair, though only after pulling his phone out. He keeps it at hand when he plops himself down onto the sofa, mentally following the car through London’s streets.

“Liar.”

At the other end of the sofa, John tugs Sherlock’s shoes off before lifting his feet long enough to sit down. He keeps a hand on Sherlock’s ankles on his lap as he says again, “Liar. You _are_ upset.”

Sherlock scoffs at the suggestion. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. Why would I be?”

The question was rhetorical, but John answers it anyway. “Because you’d like him to call you ‘Dad’ and mean it.”

“It’s just a word.”

John’s smile is that odd, slightly twisted thing he reserves for the times when he thinks Sherlock is being particular thick. Sherlock doesn’t like that smile very much.

“Words have power. If they didn’t, you wouldn’t have introduced him as your son on his birthday. Or me as your partner. Would you?”

Rather than answering, Sherlock glances at his phone. He’s lost track of where the car should be by now, though it should be another few minutes.

“He hasn’t called me that since all this started,” he hears himself say, although he’d be hard pressed to say why he does. “Not unless it was to get something out of Lestrade, or out of me.”

John grimaces and strokes Sherlock’s ankle a little absently.

“He’s confused,” he says quietly. “And terrified. He makes a good show of pretending he’s not but you know he is. You can’t blame him for not knowing where he stands anymore.”

“I know. And I don’t blame him.” But it doesn’t hurt any less. “I just wish I could reassure him but I’m not getting any closer to figuring out whom we’re dealing with.”

He looks at the phone again. School is supposed to start in seven minutes. He wonders if James will make it in time. At this hour traffic must be atrocious. Maybe the car should have picked him up earlier.

“I have an idea,” John says suddenly. “Crime scenes. Let’s retrace the murderer’s steps today. At the warehouse we left in a hurry, we didn’t stay much longer than that at the nanny’s house, and you didn’t even see where the accountant died. Maybe you’ll figure out something new.”

The idea has some appeal… and yet. The confidence in John’s words might be unwarranted.

“I strongly doubt it’ll be that easy.”

“So do I,” John says with a strange grin. “But if we stay here I’ll spend my day thinking of ways to get you back in bed.”

It takes a second or two before the words start making sense – and barely more than that for Sherlock to acknowledge to himself that John made an overture, last night, and Sherlock pretended not to notice the offer. It’s harder to pretend now. And harder, in the light of day, to say no and watch disappointment fill John’s face. Sherlock should give him… something, at least.

“And that’s a bad thing?” he asks, his voice a little lower, edging toward the deep tones he’s noticed John is very fond of.

John shakes his head ruefully. “Yes,” he says. “When you’re clearly not interested at the moment but might go along just to please me, then yes. It’s a bad thing.”

“Who says I’m not interested?” Sherlock asks, pressing his toes against John’s thigh. Any higher and it’ll be his crotch.

With both hands, now, John stills Sherlock’s feet.

“You’re upset about what James said,” he says calmly. “You’re frustrated by this case. And you keep checking your phone, I’m assuming because you’ll get some kind of message when he arrives at school. You’re going to be worried all day, that’s pretty clear. If you tell me that despite all this you want me to take you to bed, I will. Gladly. But I’d rather you not lie to me.”

Sherlock _could_ lie, and odds are John wouldn’t know – not from his words, at least. But his body… that’s something else. And John is right. Sherlock would have been nervous on James’ first day at school anyway, but the circumstances certainly made it worse.

“I doubt you’d get a satisfactory response from me if you did take me to bed,” he grudgingly admits, displeased that he’s going to disappoint John.

But John doesn’t seem troubled in the least. He nods once, then says on a matter of fact tone, “Right. So. Crime scenes?”

It’s quite possible that, even though they’re just words, Sherlock might need to tell him again that he loves him. There might not be another way to express just how improbably, surprisingly, fantastically _perfect_ he is.

Although Sherlock might be a little biased about that.

*

They go to the warehouse first. It’s so easy to get in, it can’t really be called ‘breaking in’. Chalk marks on the floor mark the position of the body, and the painted words are still there as well. Sherlock goes up to the platform to look at both from above, and takes a picture of his name. At his side, John purses his lips but says nothing until they get out.

“This one looks like it was just to get your attention,” he says then.

“Mine,” Sherlock agrees, “Or James. Or both. The written message was for me, but Moran… That looks more like a message to James.”

“Unless that was a warning for you, too. Don’t touch him like Moran did, or suffer the same fate.”

Sherlock gives him an appalled look. The thought is downright repulsive and it had never even touched his mind that someone might suspect him of any such thing.

However, John is not necessarily wrong. Upon realizing they left James in the hands of an abuser, whoever it is might have started suspecting everyone of being capable of the same.

They go chronologically, so the accountant’s office is next. Sherlock gets the address from Mycroft, who warns him there’s nothing left there – and he’s right. It’s a complete waste of time.

Sherlock would have found a way to gain access to Carol Sanders’ flat, but John insists on giving a call to Lestrade. Rather than sending a uniform to open for them, Lestrade comes himself. He asks about James, and seems surprised that Sherlock let him out of his sight. In Sherlock’s pocket, his phone seems heavier, suddenly. It’s past noon already, and James hasn’t texted once. Is he waiting for Sherlock to message him first?

They don’t get anything new from the flat, nor has Lestrade stumbled onto an unexpected epiphany after Sherlock shared every bit of information he had with him. They part a little past one, and John drags Sherlock to get some food.

James still hasn’t texted. Sherlock finally does while waiting for food he has little interest in.

_Everything okay?_  
 _SH_

It’s only seconds before the reply comes in.

_Fine_  
 _Math = boring  
Can u exuse me from that class 2?_

He shows the message to John, who grins at it, before he replies.

_Not even one day and your spelling is already atrocious._  
 _I should excuse you from the entire brain-rotting experience.  
SH_

The next message takes a little longer to come in.

_I’d like to see you text with one hand under a desk with a teacher six meters away._  
 _Think she’s on to me.  
Later_

John rolls his eyes at that one. “What did I say about getting him in trouble?”

Sherlock doesn’t text again after that.

After lunch, they go to Mycroft’s office to have a look at what was removed from the accountant’s murder scene. As it turns out, the ‘accountant’ was no such thing: he was a high ranking bank manager in one of England’s largest institutions. Which makes the fact that he had eleven pictures of James in his email even more disturbing. Looking at them one after the other, Sherlock can see a progression. Distressed and red-eyed in the first pictures, James slowly turns as expressionless as a mannequin even as his clothing turns shabbier, his nails more ragged against the newspaper print he’s made to hold in front of him on each picture. On four shots, he sports distinct bruises on his face, his neck, his hands.

“He knew,” Sherlock mutters, holding back his rage by biting the words. “The bloody man _knew_ Moran was beating James, at the very least, and he continued to send him money for the privilege.”

If John and Mycroft think anything of his swearing, neither of them says.

The computer reveals a couple other things, though nothing important. The banker was well paid for his trouble, drawing a considerable salary from the same account from which he paid Moran, a few nannies, and various house bills. He’d been doing as much for eleven years.

Eleven years in Jim Moriarty’s employ – three of those posthumously, and after Moriarty was revealed as a criminal. Loyalty, or the lure of money? If he had complete access to Moriarty’s account, what stopped him from simply emptying it for his own gain and stopping to pay anyone but himself once Moriarty was dead? Unless it was fear – fear that he might be some day asked to account for every pound.

It’s all speculation, and with the man being dead, it doesn’t help anything.

Sherlock also gets a look at the note left for him. The message is just as chilling in person as it was to hear it over the phone. He’s taking a picture of that, too, when Mycroft’s phone rings and he excuses himself into the next room.

“Shouldn’t we get home?” John asks. “James will be on his way soon, won’t he?”

Even as Sherlock is about to agree, Mycroft’s voice rises, uncharacteristically loud as he answers to whoever is on the phone.

“Are you telling me you let a thirteen year old child slip past five of you?”

The worst part is, Sherlock isn't even surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my tumblr peeps - i ended up cutting the chapter in 2 so the bit that had me in tears is actually in the next chapter...


	30. Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't get this out of my head and i just had to finish this chapter so you're getting it early.
> 
> Now the next one *will* take longer, because i need to finish writing a novel and i promised myself i won't touch fanfic until i write 'the end' on that story. Here's hoping my muse cooperates.
> 
> Please note the added warning for talk of suicide / suicidal ideation.

Mycroft is still on the phone, promising some inept bodyguard an assignment at the farthest end of the Antarctic shelf keeping guard over penguins when John rests a hand in the middle of Sherlock’s back.

“It’s not your fault,” he says firmly.

Dialing James’ number on his phone, Sherlock doesn’t look up at John. No need to confirm his suspicions.

“Why do you say that?” he asks as he raises the phone to his ear. 

It goes straight to voicemail. Hanging up, Sherlock switches to texting.

 _WHERE ARE YOU?  
SH_

Somehow, he doubts he’s going to get an answer from James, but John provides one.

“I say that because I know you and right now you’re thinking about the last words you two exchanged this morning. It’s not your fault.”

Well. Two statements correct out of three. Not bad.

Sherlock’s phone remains silent.

“He seemed fine when you texted him earlier,” John says, now trying for reassuring.

“Or he was trying not to arouse my suspicions,” Sherlock replies tonelessly, shifting away from John’s hand.

He doesn’t want to be reassured right now. He doesn’t need to be coddled. He needs answers, and for James to be found, safe and sound.

Mycroft finally finishes his tongue lashing – uncharacteristic; he’s affected, very much so – and barks a few orders to his assistant before coming back into the room. Sherlock meets his gaze, a thousand questions and twice as many recriminations on the tip of his tongue, but Mycroft beats him to it.

“Where could he be going?” he asks, the words clipped, firing like a burst from an automatic weapon.

Sherlock glares at him. “If I knew do you think I’d still be here?”

Mycroft all but looms over him, using those two centimeters he has on Sherlock to full effect. “Think, Sherlock,” he admonishes, as though they were still children. “What has he done or said that could explain this?”

Sherlock takes a step back, then another, folding himself into an armchair, fingers steepled in front of him. He’s not going to say he doesn’t know. He’s not going to give Mycroft that satisfaction. They’re not children anymore, and this is not a game.

When too many seconds have passed in tense silence, John clears his throat quietly and says, “He’s convinced Moriarty is alive and waiting for his moment to kidnap him. He said he believed if he went out alone, he’d be taken right off the street.”

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock can see that John is watching him, but he doesn’t turn his head to meet his gaze. He can’t right now, not when his mind is running everywhere at once, analyzing James’ exact words when he threatened to leave, his words this morning, every nuance of expression. 

Should Sherlock have seen it coming?

Maybe.

Probably. 

Yes.

Of course. Of course he should have predicted this. His worry this morning, and then the mental slap James delivered without meaning to unsettled him, and he must have missed a clue, a tell, _something_. He should have known. 

“Is that what he wants?” Mycroft asks as steps back behind his desk and sits down. “To be with his… biological father?”

“No,” Sherlock snaps. “It’s not. But he’d go anywhere if he thought it’d keep us safe.”

John paces through the room for a moment before settling behind the remaining chair. Sherlock still can’t look at him, so he half-closes his eyes, trying to focus. Mycroft’s nails, striking his desk rhythmically, make him want to break something.

“It’s too random,” Mycroft says brusquely. “Just walk through the streets until he gets taken? That doesn’t sound like him. And why now? Why today? The timing can’t be random either.”

“He must have been planning it,” John says. “It’s the first time he’s been out of our sight for days. First chance he’s had.”

“No it’s not,” Sherlock says at once. “If he’s been meaning to run away, his best chance would have been to say nothing when we wanted him to stay home two nights ago. He could simply have left after us.”

“So, not random,” Mycroft says. “Something changed in the past two days.”

“He could be in contact with someone,” John says. “With the murderer. If they threatened us, it’d be a reason for him to leave.”

Sherlock pinches his lips tightly. He’s considered that possibility, too, in the past few minutes, but it physically hurts to even imagine James keeping something like that from him.

“His computer,” John continues. “He’s been spending hours in his room and—”

“No,” Mycroft cuts in. “Nothing like that has been going through that computer.”

Unbidden, a scoff rises from Sherlock. “You bugged it.”

Mycroft doesn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. “Of course I bugged it. He’s a teenager. I expected to have to give a lecture against pornography or the risks of communicating with strangers, but I’ve been monitoring that laptop for a rather different reason.”

He doesn’t say, ‘you should have been the one doing it,’ but it’s in the hard glint in his eyes, in the tight line of his lips. Sherlock looks away. He knows he’s a failure as a father. Today proves that very clearly. He doesn’t need Mycroft to tell him, with or without words.

“His phone,” he says quietly.

“Who would he call?” John asks.

Sherlock shrugs. “He’s got a nineteen digit bank account number and the corresponding bank phone number memorized. For all I know they’re not the only numbers he has in his head. People who worked for Moriarty. Family members. Who knows?”

“His mother—”

Mycroft shoots down John’s guess in an icy voice.

“His mother went back to work teaching today after spending a week in the Swiss Alps skiing with a couple of friends. She apparently goes every year. That’s where she and her dead husband spent their honeymoon.”

He sneers at that, and Sherlock understands why. The idea of anyone remembering Moriarty with any sort of fondness is jarring, even if the man that woman knew and the man who died on Bart’s roof were very different people. 

“And James has no other living family,” Mycroft goes on. “Jim Moriarty’s parents were both only children. All four grand-parents are deceased. His mother died in childbirth. He had an older brother who died in his adolescence under unexplained circumstances. His father was a celebrated professor of literature in Dublin. His death record indicates he barricaded himself inside his house and set fire to it after being accused of embezzling money, amongst other things.”

His eyes back on Mycroft, Sherlock scrutinizes him, and wonders how far he’s looked, searching for information. He’s gone back two generations investigating Moriarty’s family, he’s still keeping a close eye on James’ mother even after clearing her… He’s deduced the same thing Sherlock did from the messages left at the murder scenes: whoever they’re dealing with believes James is theirs by right; family would fit, but if there’s no family left…

“Christ,” John breathes, bowing his head. “So Moriarty’s father killed himself. And Moriarty did the same thing. You don’t think James—”

“Don’t say it.” Sherlock gets to his feet, barely aware of what he’s doing. “Don’t even think it.”

John gives him a contrite look. The idea continues to hover above the room, stifling. James doesn’t know about his grandfather – or at least he never mentioned it – but he does know how his father died, and Sherlock remembers all too well how the news devastated him. 

Out of nowhere, Sherlock’s mind gives him information he doesn’t want: a Danish study about suicide. Family history of suicide and mental illness were both identified as increasing the risk a person might take their own life. That study was in the file Mycroft’s people compiled for him about James. John read it like Sherlock did, though neither raised the topic until now.

When Mycroft’s phone rings, the tension in the office thickens a little more. He picks up and Sherlock holds his breath. The call only lasts seconds.

“We have him on CCTV,” Mycroft says when he hangs up. He draws the laptop on the side of his desk closer and types quickly. “He’s on Basil Street.”

“That’s near—” Sherlock starts as he walks around the desk.

“Knightsbridge,” Mycroft finishes with him. “He’s going to his former home.”

John joins them on this side of the desk, and all three are looking at the screen when a few more commands from Mycroft pull up four CCTV images from the same street. Wrapped in his great coat and with his schoolbag in hand, James walks at a fast pace, though not fast enough to appear as though he’s trying to get away from anything more than the cold. As he crosses the street, he looks up, straight at the camera following him. Even on the small image, his frown is obvious, and he seems to walk a little faster suddenly.

“He knows we found him,” Sherlock says flatly.

There’s no time to lose. He goes to the chair and pick up his coat and scarf. John does the same and asks, “Could anyone be waiting for him in that house?”

“No,” Mycroft says at once. “If anyone had entered it, I’d know. It’s been empty since my men searched the place.”

“We need to get there,” Sherlock says. “And fast.”

“A car will meet you outside.” Mycroft picks up his phone and waves them out of the room. “I’ll call you if he changes course.”

*

It might be the longest ride of Sherlock’s life. It doesn’t help that he can feel John’s eyes on him the whole time.

“What did I do?” John finally asks when they’re only a couple streets away. “What did I do that you won’t look at me?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You haven’t done anything.”

“So why—”

“You distract me,” Sherlock says bluntly. “If I want to think clearly, I have to keep you out of my mind. I can’t—”

“No,” John cuts in. “That’s not how you work. That’s not how _we_ work. You think aloud, you bounce things off me, you dumb it down so I can understand, and it helps you figure things out. It’s always been that way. It doesn’t have to change now.”

Sherlock would argue that things _did_ change, that everything is different now, but the car comes to a smooth stop and the time for talking is over. He flings the car door open and all but jumps out. John is right on his heels as he walks up the few steps to the front door. A glance at the security panel shows it’s still disarmed. He throws the door open and bellows James’ name. It seems to echo through the empty rooms. James’ school bag rests against the wall, but there’s no sign of him, and no answer.

It takes them mere moments to check the piano room, library and kitchen on this level. When they go back to the staircase and start going up, James appears on the landing above them. Sherlock’s heart, for a second, feels as though it just might stop. He has a dozen, a hundred questions to ask, but he can’t say a single word, can’t even take another step.

“What are you doing here?” James asks.

“What are _we_ doing here?” John repeats, sounding outraged. “The question is, what are _you_ doing here? Why did you run away?”

James looks back and forth between the two of them. He’s unbuttoned his coat, but his scarf is still wrapped tightly at his throat.

“I can’t stay with you,” he says.

Sherlock finds his voice back right along with the ability to move. Gripping the banister hard enough to hurt his palm, he takes a few steps up toward James.

“If you think I’m leaving you alone here or anywhere else for that matter you really have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

Shaking his head, James sighs. 

“But can’t you _see_? He’s killing people I came in contact with, even indirectly. What do you think he’s going to do to you? To John? You don’t know my father like I do but surely you can see that he’s going to kill you too. Both of you. Do you think I’m just going to wait for him to do it?”

Every ounce of fear Sherlock felt today, every bit of anger and self-loathing, all of it coalesces and demands to be let out.

“Your father isn’t going to do anything because your father is dead!” he all but shouts, and again his voice echoes through Moriarty’s house.

James flinches, though more at the level of Sherlock’s voice than his actual words, Sherlock would bet. He quickly gets a grip on himself and replies in a scathing tone.

“How can you still think that now after everything that happened?”

“I saw him _die_ in front of me!”

It’s not quite a shout, this time, but it’s a near thing. James takes a step forward and raises his chin a little higher. With Sherlock still a few steps from the landing, they’re practically at eye level.

“He faked it like you did!” James snaps.

“Don’t be ridiculous. How does one fake shooting themselves in the head?”

“How does one fake jumping off a roof?”

“I was prepared. I had help—”

“And you think he wasn’t prepared? Don’t be stupid.”

“ _I’m_ stupid? I’m not the one—”

“All right, boys,” John interrupts suddenly in a commanding tone; for a second, Sherlock had almost forgotten he was there. “Calm down. Both of you. There’s no reason to shout or to resort to name-calling. You’re both scared the other will get hurt. That doesn’t mean you have to hurt each other.”

James turns his head to the side, staring at a painting on the wall. Little by little, his fast breathing calms down, and the extra bit of red in his cheeks starts to fade. Sherlock’s anger recedes along with James’. He watches as James tugs his scarf undone, shoves his hands in his pockets, immediately pulls them out again. It’s not quite fidgeting, but it’s the next best thing to it. Something’s off, there, and it’s not about the mutual shouting. This wasn’t like any of James’ past meltdowns, and neither is the aftermath. It almost feels… controlled. 

Planned.

Like this whole thing feels planned. That’s what John said, back in Mycroft’s office: that James had been planning it. James insisting to go to school despite what has been happening, his questions to Mycroft about his surveillance… He knew he was caught on the CCTV and didn’t try to hide or change his destination.

“I’m sorry,” James finally murmurs, looking back at Sherlock.

It’s the same words he used this morning, the same tone… the same reason. He was apologizing in advance, to make his return easier—so he planned to return. One last leap of logic, and Sherlock gets it. All of it. 

“So am I,” he says despite his tightening throat. He goes up one more step and holds out his hand, palm out toward James. “Now give me the gun and we’ll go home.”

The smallest blink betrays James before he can control his features and asks with well-crafted surprise, “What gun?”

Another step up, and Sherlock is almost close enough to touch him. He’s aware that John is just a step or two behind him, and can only imagine his bewilderment. His answer is for John as much as it is for James.

“I am not stupid, James. Neither are you. You knew we wouldn’t let you go. All this scene was nothing more than a distraction. You fully intended to come back to Baker Street with us. You didn’t come here to stay alone in an empty house, you came here to retrieve something. You’re afraid for our safety, so it’s something you think will protect us. You’ve mentioned your gun before. You didn’t have it when you were with Moran, so it had to be here. Give it to me now.”

As Sherlock speaks, James’ expression closes off, little by little, and he slips his right hand back into his coat pocket. Sherlock can guess it’s curling around the gun hidden there.

“No,” James says coldly.

“James—” John starts, but doesn’t get to say anything more.

“It’s mine. I’ll keep us safe. Safer than Mycroft’s men. And I bet I’m a better shot than you. Either of you.”

John is now on the same level as Sherlock, one step from the landing, though he, too, seems to think coming any closer to James might not be such a good idea right now.

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you,” Sherlock says grimly, “but that’s irrelevant. Give me. The gun.”

James shakes his head. His whole body is trembling. “No. I’m not going to let him kill you.”

“He’s not going to kill any of us, whoever ‘he’ is. The gun.”

James finally draws the weapon from his pocket, his knuckles bone-white on the handle as he angles it toward the floor. Automatic, Sherlock notes. Loaded. The safety is on. It looks enormous in James’ small hand—or that might be Sherlock’s mind playing tricks on his perception.

“Three years,” James says, his voice ragged, his eyes gleaming with tears. “He left me with Sebastian for _three years_ and never came for me. And now that I was happy, _now_ he’s coming back to destroy everything.”

The soft click of the safety is as loud as a cannon.

“I won’t let him,” he finishes, looking down at the gun.

“James,” John says very low, “put it down please. Now.”

But James doesn’t seem to hear.

“I’ll kill him first,” he says, his voice hardening yet ending on a sob.

“You’re not killing anyone,” Sherlock says quietly as he considers lunging forward and wrestling the gun out of James’ hand. With the safety off, it seems like a very bad idea. “Least of all your father because he’s already dead.”

There’s no protest this time, no denial about Moriarty’s death. There’s something much worse.

“Yes, dead,” he murmurs, tears finally rolling down his cheeks. “That’s a better idea. We’ll see how much he likes that when he’s on the other side of it.”

His hand is still shaking when he lifts the gun until the muzzle presses against the side of his head. 

“Oh god,” John breathes. 

He takes a stumbling step down, and Sherlock knows, with a blindly clarity, what’s going on in his mind right now, what he’s seeing—remembering. Three years on, and only now does Sherlock truly understand what he put John through, standing on that ledge with a phone in his hand. Only now does he understand the fear, and horror, and disbelief, and that soul-crushing realization that he has to do something, but any movement might only accelerate everything toward a terrible end.

“James,” he says, surprised at how calm he sounds when his heart is trying to shatter his ribcage, when a million shards of glass are tearing his mind to shreds. “James, look at me.”

Two blinks, two more tears, and James’ eyes focus on him.

Sherlock swallows hard. “Please. Please lower the gun. I know you don’t want to do this. You survived the past three years and you’re going to survive this too. You’ll do more than survive. You’ll thrive. You’re the strongest person I—”

“I’m not,” James blurts out. “I’m not strong. I’ve never been strong. Never enough for Father. I was never enough.”

Sherlock tries to hold his gaze rather than glance at the shaky hand that clings to a loaded gun.

“Yes you are. You’re strong and you’re enough and you’re loved and if you do this—” Bile rises to the back of Sherlock’s throat and he swallows again. He can almost smell the gunpowder and blood, can hear the detonation and shattering of bones. “You’re not just putting a hole through your head. You’re putting one through my heart, too.”

The gun wavers a little and Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. Very, very slowly, James lowers the weapon until it hangs at his side as he sobs, unrestrained. Feeling numb, Sherlock steps onto the landing and ever so gently tugs the piece of cold metal from James’ hand. He clicks the safety on and, without needing to look back, holds it behind him. John takes it at once and Sherlock can hear the quiet sounds of the magazine sliding free, the bullet already in the chamber being ejected. The data registers, but it’s of no importance right now. Only one thing is.

Another step takes him closer to James. Tear-filled eyes look up to him, and maybe Sherlock could see what they hold, fear or guilt or despair or who knows what else, but it’s hard to tell when his own eyes are watering. He opens his arms but doesn’t have time to close them again around the trembling child in front of him. James throws himself at him, pressing his face to Sherlock’s chest, clinging to his back desperately.

“I don’t want to go,” he says in between sobs. “Please.”

Sherlock holds him close and shuts his eyes tight. 

“You’re not going,” he says as fiercely as he can manage. “Not anywhere.”

“Please don’t let him get me.”

“No one is getting you.”

Another hand, larger, stronger than James’ rests against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock leans against it, grateful.

“I wanted…” Muffled against Sherlock’s coat, James’ words drop down to a broken whisper. “I wanted him not to be dead. But that was before. Before you became my dad.”

He’s not shamming this time as he offers Sherlock that word he so wanted. To hear it now is bittersweet.

“I know, James,” Sherlock murmurs, holding him a little closer still. “I know. It’s going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”

He’s never lied to James. He doesn’t intend to start now.


	31. Raw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience - and thank you for your comments, they are much appreciated.

Little by little, James’ sobbing subsides, then stops. Even then, though, he doesn’t pull away. Sherlock doesn’t either, taking his cue from him – and another cue from John, too. John has been rubbing small circles on Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock does the same, hoping the gesture is as soothing to James as it is to him.

It takes another few minutes before James’ hands loosen and let go of Sherlock’s coat. He takes the tiniest of steps back, then another, and Sherlock’s hands fall away from him.

“I’m sorry,” James says, his voice raw, his gaze stopping short of meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock says, but immediately John interjects.

“No. No it’s not all right.”

Sherlock turns to him, says his name quietly, but John shakes his head.

“Don’t tell him it’s all right when he threatened to take his own life. There’s nothing ‘all right’ about that.” 

“I’m sorry,” James says again, stifled tears edging his words with the shadow of a sob. “I swear I’m really sorry.”

“I believe you,” John says, a little more gently. “But I’d prefer to hear you swear you’re never going to do something like that again.”

James doesn’t hesitate for even a second. “I promise.” He swallows hard. “I won’t do that again. Ever.”

John nods, he even manages a clearly difficult smile, then turns away and starts down the steps.

“Are we… can we go home?” James asks quietly as he watches him go.

It’s nice to hear him call it home again; even nicer to realize that, as upset as he still is, he means it, all of it, and he’s not just giving them the words he thinks they want to hear.

“In a moment,” Sherlock says. “Maybe you’d like to wash your face first?”

Those red, still wet eyes finally look up at him, and a quick frown flits over James’ brow. He nods once and goes back up a flight of steps to the bathroom. Sherlock, meanwhile, goes down to where John is sitting on the next to last step of the staircase. He doesn’t exactly collapse next to him, but he’s nonetheless grateful to sit down for a moment, his shoulder pressed to John’s. It doesn’t help anything when he sees that John is turning the gun in his hands. It’s unloaded and inoffensive, and still it twists Sherlock’s stomach.

“I’m going to keep this,” John says quietly. “It’s clear Mycroft’s people aren’t infallible. I’ll feel better if one of us has a gun.”

Lestrade’s voice echoes in Sherlock’s mind.

_Two weeks after you died, I took his gun from him._

He said it months ago. At the time, Sherlock thought he understood why. He was wrong. He was so, so wrong. He understood nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he says, unable to keep the words in any longer lest they burn his heart to cinders.

John throws him a sideways frown.

“You’re sorry I’m keeping the gun?”

Sherlock’s throat tries to tighten but he refuses to let it. “I’m sorry I made you watch me jump. It’s not an excuse, but I had no idea… no idea how difficult… how painful—”

The same hand that, a second ago, was cradling a gun now grips his neck, pulls him closer until John’s lips are on his, quite as needy and desperate as Sherlock himself feels.

Three heartbeats, and John ends the kiss, though he presses his forehead to Sherlock rather than pulling away, for which Sherlock is grateful. His eyes seem as dark, as deep as the bottom of the ocean, where everything is at the same time very quiet and infinitely dangerous.

“Apology accepted.” 

His hand drifts from Sherlock’s neck to his cheeks and he swipes his thumb under Sherlock’s eye, spreading a trace of moisture over his cheekbone.

“Go get your son,” he murmurs. “And maybe you’ll want to wash up a bit, too, before we get out of here.”

Sherlock raises a hand to his own face and is surprised to find more wetness under his fingers. He’s not quite sure when it happened, although now he understands why James frowned when he looked at him.

Up Sherlock goes, to see what’s taking so long. He finds the bathroom door open and James seated on the edge of the bathtub, a thick terrycloth towel in his hands. His face is dry, the tear tracks gone, his eyes a little less puffy, his hair a bit damp and still bearing grooves from his fingers from where he combed it back.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock asks, leaning against the doorjamb.

James looks up briefly before resuming his scrutiny of the hand towel.

“I don’t know why I did that,” he mutters. “When I was… when I was with Sebastian, there were plenty of times when I thought… I could just end it. I could take a knife or his razor or run in front of a car or…”

When he swallows, his throat clicks, the sound magnified in the tiled room.

“I had this whole list of ways I could do it,” he continues, even more quietly now. “And I wanted it to end. But I never tried. Never.”

Another pause, and Sherlock can’t tell if he’s done or if there’s more coming. Either way, he has no idea what to reply, so he keeps silent.

“I wasn’t thinking about that when I came here,” James finally goes on, still looking at the towel he’s now twisting in his hands. “I just wanted the gun to protect you, and John. Not… not for anything else. I can’t even remember why I… why I raised it.”

On one hand, Sherlock is relieved that this, at least, wasn’t part of James plan. On the other, if it happened that quickly, for no reason James can figure out, does that mean it could happen again despite his promise to John?

“You were upset,” Sherlock says, hating that he’s stating the obvious. “You’ve been upset and on edge for an entire week.” It feels a lot longer than a week. “Things have been dredged up that maybe you were trying to forget.” No ‘maybe’ about it; James has made it repeatedly clear how much he hates talking about Moran, and Moran and what he did were, quite literally, unearthed for all to see. “And then I started shouting at you and—”

James’ eyes snap up and he shakes his head vigorously. “No. You shouting… That wasn’t it. I mean, I don’t _like_ you shouting at me, but I expected you might. I did run away. But I always meant to come back.”

Which is what Sherlock had deduced, but it’s still good to hear it confirmed.

James’ voice returns to a murmur and he drops his eyes back to the towel when he asks, “Are you mad I ran away?”

Examining his own thoughts only takes a second. Sherlock is angry, yes. Murderously angry toward the person who’s been putting James through all this while calling him theirs. Equally furious with the dead man who thought nothing of placing a gun in a child’s hand. Blindingly irate against the professional ‘security consultants’ who let a thirteen year old ridicule them. Irrationally annoyed with Mycroft because they’re his people and because he suggested James ought to go to school in the first place. And most of all, mad at himself, because he didn’t solve the case yet, and because he should have known James would come up with a plan to keep them safe.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says, because that’s really all James wants or needs to know. “Maybe I should be, but I’m not, because I understand why you did it. I understand you thought it was necessary. I’ve done things in the past when I thought they were necessary and regardless of the consequences. It’d be hypocritical from me to hold you to higher standards than I hold myself.”

Looking back up at him, James observes him for a little while. He seems on the verge of saying something, then suddenly frowns, shakes his head and stands, fussily arranging the hand towel on the holder.

“I’m ready to go home,” he says, and there is nothing in his voice to acknowledge that this house was once his home.

Sherlock lets him walk out and suggests he goes to John while Sherlock uses the loo. With the door closed, the room feels smaller, though it’s anything but. Two 221B bathrooms could fit in here. But 221B is home, and this is just a dead man’s house, filled with memories better left alone. As he watches water run in the sink and finally splashes his face, Sherlock wonders who will pay the bills from now on and keep this empty house in working order, as though it’s only waiting for its occupants to return.

After drying his face and taking for the first time a look at the mirror – satisfied that he looks fine if a little flushed – he pulls his phone out, intending to send Mycroft a text to ask where the house bills will be sent now that the banker is dead.

He’s a bit shocked to discover his fingers have a mind of their own and type a very different message.

_Both my overdoses were accidents. Neither was a suicide attempt.  
SH_

Seven years since the last one. Twelve since the one before that. He has no idea why he feels it necessary to say it now when he’s made it clear to Mycroft he never wanted to talk about those experiences again. No idea what he expects Mycroft’s answer to be, either. But he does press send.

The reply comes in after only seconds.

_Is James safe?_

_Safe yes. Also upset. And more terrified than he wants anyone to know, I think. We need to solve this.  
SH_

_I’m working on it as much as you are. We’ll get there._

Sherlock certainly hopes so, but saying it seems redundant at this point. He’s about to leave the bathroom when his phone pings one last time.

_Thank you for telling me._

It’s impossible to read emotions on five words on a phone screen, and still Sherlock imagines relief behind them, the same relief he felt when James said he hadn’t planned or meant to take his own life. Maybe he does know why he sent that first text after all.

Down at the bottom of the staircase, James and John are sitting side by side. The gun is out of sight – tucked at the back of John’s trousers, Sherlock guesses – and they’re talking quietly, falling silent as Sherlock joins them. He’s curious about what they were talking about, but decides against prodding, or even trying to deduce it. John has been taking a bigger role with James, and there’s no reason for Sherlock to insert himself in their relationship.

The driver waited for them and takes them back to Baker Street. They’re greeted by a babbling Mrs. Hudson who baked biscuits to celebrate James’ first day at school and who asks him about his classes and classmates. James answers with all the reluctance one expects from a teenager, and for a moment it almost feels as though this really was just a regular day, with nothing more of note than a first day in a new school. Sherlock wishes it were true.

But it’s not, and once Mrs. Hudson has left again, it’s time for reality to reassert itself. James is at the desk, notebooks and books in front of him, something that causes John to frown and give Sherlock a questioning look before he walks to the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Sherlock knows exactly what he’ll be doing in there – finding a hiding place for the gun – just like he knows what that unvoiced question was, and for once he has no hesitation about the correct answer.

“You’re doing your homework,” he remarks as he picks up his violin.

“Math,” James replies. “Unless you’re going to excuse me from that class after all?”

Sherlock notes the attempt at humor – or is that an attempt to bring things back to what they were earlier, before James’ escapade? – but he’s not amused.

“I am,” he says as he fiddles with the tuning pegs. “I’m excusing you from math class, and every other class as well.”

James’ pen comes to a stop on the notebook page. Sherlock keeps tuning his violin, occasionally pinching the strings to draw a note or two, but he doesn’t miss any minute expression crossing James’ face, and with each of them he tries to follow James’ mental process as he keeps silent.

Yes, Sherlock is pulling him out of school.

Yes, it’s the result of today’s running away.

No, arguing about it would not help anything right now.

No, Sherlock doesn’t care one bit about the tuition and the fact that it was already paid for the rest of the year.

Yes, he does care about James’ professed need to have something to occupy his mind and will try his best to provide distractions.

In the end, what James asks is, “When it’s all over… if I’m still—”

“No if,” Sherlock interrupts. “When it’s all over, you’ll go back.”

He’d like to say it won’t take very long, but unfortunately he doesn’t know as much. He wants to believe it, though, more than anything.

James takes his book bag up to his room, and Sherlock expects him to stay up there. He comes back down, however, bringing his own violin, and while he doesn’t ask, what he wants is obvious. They start an impromptu lesson, working over Vivaldi’s Four Seasons because Sherlock knows John likes it, and soon John joins them, sitting with a cup of tea and one of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits.

What’s left of the afternoon and evening passes quietly. Take out, inane movie on the telly, John and Sherlock sharing the sofa while James curls up in Sherlock’s armchair, it feels again like nothing happened today. And yet, if nothing had, James wouldn’t drag his pillow and blanket downstairs and wrap himself in the familiar cocoon when it’s time for to go to bed.

“You don’t have to,” he says from within the folds of the blanket when Sherlock picks up his violin again. “You can just… go to bed.”

Sherlock looks across the room to where John is brewing chamomile in the kitchen. One corner of John’s mouth lifts and he inclines his head in what could be a nod to the question Sherlock doesn’t quite know how to phrase.

James accepts his tea with a word of thanks and drinks it to the last drop. Sherlock plays for him, gentle pieces and lullabies completely at odds with the agitated thoughts swirling in his mind. The same facts echo endlessly without any new meaning detaching itself from what is known, while at the same time the events of the day replay over and over, still as painful even now that he knows how things ended. John listens for a while then goes to bed with a smile at Sherlock.

It’s late when James finally falls asleep. Sherlock’s mind feels raw, more so than his fingers do when he sets the violin in its case. A scalding shower doesn’t do much to soothe him, but John’s open arms when he climbs into bed certainly do.


	32. Theories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can never say it enough - all my thanks for each and every comment. Hearing your thoughts makes my day.

The curtains aren’t fully closed, and with each passing moment a line of sunlight is creeping across the room. It already reached the bed, and as Sherlock watches it makes its way up the sheet covering John. It’s up to his upper chest, now, and soon it’ll fall across his face and wake him.

Sherlock could get up, close the gap in the curtain, ensure that John’s sleep remains undisturbed a little longer. Maybe he should do that; John did not get a very restful night and he probably could use more sleep. But if he remains in bed, Sherlock will want to stay right where he is, too, keep watching him, breathing to the same rhythm, observing the movement of his eyes behind his eyelids, cataloguing _everything_. The thought is more than appealing, and some day – soon, hopefully – he’ll do that for hours on end. 

But not today.

“Are you watching me?” John mumbles suddenly.

His eyes are still closed. The sunlight only reaches as high as his neck.

“Possibly,” Sherlock says. “How did you know?”

“Guessed.” He yawns, and adds, “Did you sleep at all?”

Another good guess. 

“Too busy for sleep.”

Finally opening his eyes, John turns onto his side, facing Sherlock.

“Thinking,” he says with a half smile. “Did you figure out anything then?”

Unfortunately, this guess isn’t so accurate.

“Nothing.” The admission is bitter on Sherlock’s tongue. “I’m not getting anything out of the crime scenes. They’re all so different, it’s as though…”

He trails off as a thought occurs to him. Moriarty only ever got his hands dirty once: when he wanted to be arrested and put through a sham of a trial. Other than that, he was always pulling strings, having others pull the trigger for him. Whoever is playing with them today has been imitating his style, sending messages and using poisons Moriarty used. What if they’re imitating him another way, too? What if the crime scenes are different, the messages in different handwritings, because it’s a different person every time? Finding the actual murderers is useless. What they need is the spider at the center of the web.

“As though what?” John prompts him.

“Not as though. They are different because the person behind all this is acting from afar, pulling strings. We’re not going to catch them by figuring out who’s behind each crime. What we need is to figure out where they’re likely to strike next, be one step ahead. We have a pattern, we need to find out where it leads.”

“We know where it leads,” John says grimly. “To James. Which means he’s right about one thing and sooner or later we’ll be the ones targeted.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock slides out of bed and goes to the dresser.

“Let him come to me,” he quotes. “Remember, they don’t want to take James by force. If that was what they wanted, they had their chance yesterday when he was walking through London by himself. They want him to go to them. Which means they’ll need to leave a clue for him to know where to go. Which means there’ll be more crime scenes for us to find. Which means we have a chance to be there before they become crime scenes.”

By the time he turns around, he’s dressed. John is sitting in bed, watching him.

“You’re going to question James,” he says quietly. “Do you think he’s up to it?”

The truth is, Sherlock doesn’t know. He’s been reluctant to ask him too many questions so far, and he’s made sure to keep others from asking. But there isn’t anyone else, or any other way that Sherlock can see.

“What I think is that if someone else dies, he’ll believe he’s responsible somehow. Maybe being able to help us would be good for him.”

“Maybe,” John concedes, though he still looks concerned.

Walking out of the bedroom, Sherlock understands that concern all too well. If he could have kept everything about this case from James, he would have, with no hesitation. A lie by omission isn’t really a lie at all. But time after time, the choice was taken from him, starting with the video on James’ birthday.

When he steps into the kitchen, he can see James still bundled in his blanket on the sofa. He tries not to make too much noise as he puts the kettle on and pulls mugs out, but it isn’t long before James stirs and sits up. He stays where he is, and after a moment Sherlock takes a mug of tea to him, along with a couple biscuits leftover from yesterday.

“Thought you didn’t do room service,” James says with a barely stifled yawn, blinking owlishly.

He’s still wrapped in his blanket, his hands sticking out of the folds to hold the mug and plate. Sherlock takes a seat, blowing over his own tea.

“This isn’t your room so it doesn’t apply,” he replies, tongue in cheek. “Did you sleep well?”

Yawning again, James nods. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

More blinking. Maybe Sherlock should have let him sleep longer, too.

“I never sleep that late,” James protests. “Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?”

“What for? It’s not as though you have to go anywhere. And I’m fairly certain you have a lot of sleep to catch up on. Or am I wrong?”

Although he looks faintly mutinous, James doesn’t reply and busies himself with his tea and biscuits. He’s almost finished by the time John joins them and takes his seat across from Sherlock. A raised eyebrow seems to enquire whether Sherlock started asking questions yet. Sherlock finishes his tea, sets it aside, and does just that; there’s no point in delaying any longer.

“James, I need to ask you something.”

Immediately, James’ head snaps up and a wary expression briefly crosses his face. Sherlock goes on.

“Can you recall other people your father might have mentioned, like he did the accountant? Or people who might have come to your house maybe. Other nannies. Anyone.”

For a moment, James only looks at him. Sherlock can practically hear the cogs turning in his mind.

“You’re not asking about ‘anyone’,” he finally says. “You’re asking about people he might have a reason to kill now. Is that it?”

Sherlock sees no need to deny it. 

“Correct. I think there’s more to come, and I think it’ll be someone who has some kind of connection to you, however distant, because they want to get a reaction from you.”

James nods absently, and takes a slow sip from his mug before leaning forward to set it and his empty plate on the coffee table.

“The nanny before Miss Carol…” He pulls the blanket a little higher over his shoulders and holds it closed with a tight fist. “The same thing happened to her as the one I told you about.”

Across from Sherlock, John shifts in his chair, angling his body a little more toward the sofa and James. No doubt he’s wondering what happened to those women; Sherlock can fill him in later on the details of her death.

“I remember,” he says quietly. “Can you think of anyone else?”

James gives a small shrug.

“Nobody came to the house. Just Sebastian. Father mentioned some people who worked for him but they were code names I think, and I don’t really remember them. Even if I did, I never met any of them so I wouldn’t care all that much if they died.” His eyes flick ever so briefly toward John when he adds, “They weren’t good people.”

When Sherlock nods, he continues.

“He talked about you a lot. Mycroft and John, too, but mostly you.”

John lets out a quiet sound at that, something that could be a scoff, or a laugh, or possibly a cross between the two.

“I can’t say I’m surprised about that,” he says dryly. “Are you, Sherlock?”

The strange look he throws Sherlock tickles his memory. He’s looked at Sherlock that way before, long ago, when they were talking about Moriarty. Not jealousy, exactly. More like… Can it be possessiveness? Could it have been that, back then, too? Now is not the time to explore that thought, but it is certainly intriguing. 

“Oh,” James says suddenly, giving Sherlock an excuse not to answer. “He talked about a woman, too. She was a journalist. He called her Kitty Cat.”

“Kitty Riley,” Sherlock says at once. He pulls out his phone and does a quick internet search as he asks, “What did he say about her?”

“He said he would give her the greatest scoop any journalist could ever dream of, and in exchange she was going to destroy you. I don’t think she worked for him. And I don’t think he cared about her all that much, she was just a tool.”

A tool currently working for a London tabloid and writing about misbehaving celebrities under a pseudonym. As charming as ever.

“No connection to you,” he says, switching to text messages, “but it might still be worth keeping an eye on her.”

Or so he tells Mycroft in as few words as needed.

“You said it’ll be someone I know,” James says after a few seconds. “Someone whose death I would care about.”

Sherlock looks up to find him frowning.

“That’s my theory, yes. I guess Kitty Riley is a long shot, but we’ll know soon enough.”

But James doesn’t seem to care about that all that much.

“You and John are protected, yes?” he asks.

“Probably by more people than Mycroft told me about.”

“And they keep an eye on Baker Street even when we’re not here?”

At first, Sherlock wonders if he’s worried someone might break in and wait for them, but he quickly suspects otherwise.

“Yes,” he says. “And on Mrs. Hudson.”

James nods, his unvoiced question answered.

“And I bet Mycroft has plenty of security around him,” he says.

That is definitely an understatement.

“Always.”

“What about your mum?” James asks next, and Sherlock realizes he’s running through the mental list of everyone he knows.

“Mycroft hired the maid. I doubt maid, cook and nurse are the main qualifications on her CV.”

James frowns briefly. “Just one person?”

“You’ve seen how protective he is of his family,” John interjects. “Do you think he’d leave his own mother’s protection to just one person?”

Nodding absentmindedly, James is silent for a moment. A hint of a blush creeps into his cheeks when he asks in a quiet voice, “Molly?”

Sherlock is back on his phone at once, and berating himself for not thinking of her sooner. He knew Moriarty told James about her, but that’s not why she’s a likely candidate in the grim game they’re playing here. Instead, it’s the help she gave Sherlock, three years ago, and the fact that she was the one to autopsy Moriarty that make her a possible target.

_Do you have any active surveillance on Molly Hooper?  
SH_

He’s almost hoping that Mycroft, in this case, was faster than him.

“You’re right,” he says as he hits send, “maybe Molly could use a protection detail.”

It’s only seconds before Mycroft replies.

_Establishing surveillance on K. Riley and M. Hooper right now._  
_We really need to solve this fast, my budget won’t support all this extra manpower for long._

Sherlock is about to make a scathing comment about his ‘manpower’ being clearly overpaid when they can’t even keep track of a child, but a few words from said child, barely louder than a murmur, pull his attention away from the phone.

“Is my mother… is she protected?”

In her case, it’s as much protection as it is making sure she’s not their culprit, but Sherlock doesn’t care to establish that distinction right now.

“Yes,” he offers instead, and that seems to be enough for James.

“I can’t think of anyone else. I mean, I like Sergeant Donovan and Detective Inspector Lestrade, but they’re not…” James shrugs again, searching for the right word. “Special.”

Special or not, they’ve made an impression on James, enough so that, not two weeks ago, he wanted them here to celebrate Christmas. Sherlock fires up another text message.

“All right,” he says when he looks up again. “Thank you. That’s all.”

The relief spreading over James’ features is unmistakable – and understandable. It can’t be all that comfortable to wonder which of your friends or acquaintances might die next. Three years ago, Sherlock was in his place.

“I’ll go get dressed,” James says, extirpating himself from his tangled blanket and dragging it and his pillow back upstairs.

Though still thinking about who is most likely to be the next victim, Sherlock notices John’s frown and faraway look.

“Something wrong?”

Blinking, John looks up at him. 

“No,” he says, and corrects himself at once. “Yes. Well, not wrong, just…” He sighs. “It just dawned on me that he’s met more people in the last few months than in the twelve years before that. And he likes just about all of them. Genuinely likes them, and worries for them. How does someone like Moriarty raise a child and end up with someone like James?”

It’s even more than that; Moriarty raised him, yes, but Moran claimed three years of his life – a full quarter of it to date. How James can be who he is after that never ceases to amaze Sherlock.

“Isn’t that the old question of nature and nurture?” he asks rather than summoning the specter of Moran. “How much of what we are is ingrained from birth and how much is the result of outside influences?”

Even as he says it, the spark of an idea lights up in his mind, feeble and weak. He cradles it, gently blows on it, gives it tinder, barely hearing at all John’s answer, until the flame finally catches.

“True. Although I think… Sherlock? What is it?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he exhales as the idea catches on. It’s just the first step, though, he can practically feel that there’s more to uncover, just out of sight.

“He named his son after himself,” he breathes.

“Moriarty?” John says, nonplussed. “So what? Plenty of parents do.”

“And he was teaching him everything,” Sherlock goes on, talking to himself more than to John. Getting to his feet, he starts pacing through the sitting room, following that one flame to see where it leads. “From a young age, he was molding him into being just like him. Thinking like him. The same skills.”

“Something else a lot of parents do,” John interjects. “Granted, they don’t usually try to teach their kids to be murderers, but—”

Spinning toward him, Sherlock cuts in. “Who taught Moriarty?”

John shakes his head slowly. He can’t see the growing flames, can he?

“Why do you think anyone taught him?” he asks.

Sherlock starts pacing again. “He was a kid when he killed Carl Powers. When he killed him in such a manner that no one suspected it was murder.”

“No one but you,” John says, but Sherlock tries not to let that derail him. It’s not about him right now. He knows exactly how he became who he is, and what role his parents, Mycroft – hell, even Moriarty – all played in shaping what was already there. The important thing right now is Jim Moriarty, as irritating as that may be.

“He was in his early twenties when he faked his own death and his infant son’s,” he continues, aware that the son he’s speaking of is currently in the room above, pulling not entirely pleasing noises from his violin. “That would have required resources. So would the so called ‘insurance’ his wife still receives to this day. So, intellectual resources, logistical resources, material resources.”

John finally catches on. “You’re saying he didn’t do it alone?”

“I’m saying he had a running start. Someone helped him. Someone who knew what he was capable of. Someone who might have pushed him to see what he was capable of. He found his niche quickly enough, but there was someone there in the beginning.”

“Someone who’s laying claim to James now,” John whispers.

It was only yesterday that they dismissed the idea that a member of James’ family might be behind all this. They were too quick in doing so, as it now seems obvious. 

“A brother who died under strange circumstances as a teen,” Sherlock says, remembering the information Mycroft gave them, “or a father who committed suicide in such a way that his body might have been hard to identify.”

Pulling his phone out again, he fires another text, born from another spark of idea. It wouldn’t prove anything, but if he’s right, if James isn’t only named after his father…

_What was the name of Moriarty’s father?  
SH_

“I’m leaning toward the father,” he says as he pockets the phone again. “That might also explain ‘Jamie’, and the references to the Little Prince. James’ copy is old, easily thirty years old or more. The book could have been Moriarty’s, given to him by a professor of literature, like the nickname was.”

“So… yesterday we thought they had in common that they’d both committed suicide, but instead they might have both faked their death?”

Sherlock nods. “Not that it helps us much if I’m right. If he really is alive, he acquired a new identity, possibly had plastic surgery so even with a picture we might not be able to recognize him.”

“What do we do, then?”

“We wait for him to make his next move. If he goes after anyone who’s under surveillance right now, whether he does it himself or sends someone to do it for him—”

He stops abruptly when his phone rings. Not a text, but a call, and he has to silence a flash of apprehension. Calls haven’t brought any good news, lately.

“I just asked for a name,” he says as he picks up the call. “You could have texted.”

Mycroft sounds much too tense for comfort when he replies. 

“The name is Philip but that’s not why I called. When did you last talk to Miss Hooper?”

Sherlock’s first triumphant thought that he was right, James wears the names of both his father and grandfather, is extinguished by Mycroft’s question. He turns to John, and something must show on his face because John stands up at once.

“I saw her at Bart’s a few days ago,” he says with some difficulty. “Is she dead?”

It’s not what her death would mean to him that makes the words so hard to get out. It’s what it would mean to James. A man he loathed, a woman he hadn’t seen in years, a man he’d never met… that’s all very different from someone he’s had a crush on from the moment he laid eyes on her.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft replies, frustration ringing in his words. He likes saying this no more than Sherlock does, “I don’t think so. The MO is different. She didn’t show up for work this morning. We checked her flat. The door was unlocked and there was a message on the wall, but no trace of her or of any violence.”

Which is… not good, exactly, but not as bad as it could have been.

“What was the message?” Sherlock hears himself say.

“Check your email. I’m forwarding a picture to you. I’ll call you back if we have anything.”

They hang up without another word and Sherlock fires up his laptop.

“Molly?” John says quietly. “Is she dead?”

Upstairs, James’ bow slips on the strings and produces an inelegant shriek that somehow sounds very much like the way Sherlock feels right now.

“At the very least she was taken. We don’t know more than that.”

John curses softly, then again when Sherlock opens the picture Mycroft sent him. Words have been written on the mirror that hangs by Molly’s front door, possibly in lipstick though it’s hard to tell from just a picture. The handwriting, again, is different from the previous messages.

_He’s not your family and you know it._

“Sherlock? Can you show me how to do that chord again?”

Without thinking, Sherlock slams the laptop shut as he turns toward James. He knows at once it’s a mistake. James pales visibly and lowers the violin he was holding to his neck.

“Who is dead?” he asks, his voice utterly blank.

“She’s not dead,” Sherlock says, wincing. “At least not as far as we know.”

James gives no outward reaction.

“Who was taken, then?” he asks on the same tone.

When Sherlock fails to answer, John does it for him. “Molly.”

Walking further into the room, James sets his bow and violin carefully onto the sofa before turning around and going to the landing, where he picks up his coat.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, alarmed.

James doesn’t look at him as he slips the coat on. “We’re going where she was taken, aren’t we?”

If Sherlock was alone, or even if it was just him and John, the answer would be a clear yes. Of course. But he doesn’t like that look in James’ eyes, and he doubts it’ll get better by visiting Molly’s place.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says carefully.

Undeterred, James buttons up his coat and tugs his scarf from the hook.

“How are you going to solve it if you don’t even look at the place?”

“James—” John tries on what Sherlock knows is his most patient tone.

James cuts him off at once. “No. We’re going there and you’re going to solve it and save her. You have to.”

He looks up at last. The tears Sherlock would expect aren’t there, but neither is any spark of life.

“Please,” he adds, dully.

Sherlock can’t say no to that, but neither can he ask the question ringing so loudly in his mind right now: what if he can’t solve it before it’s too late for Molly?


	33. I'm Sorry

The door of Molly’s flat closes behind them with a light thud. The cats come out to investigate, but Sherlock pays them no mind, nor does he let his awareness of John and James at his side take away from his focus.

If he’s ever needed to solve a disappearance, and fast, it’s today.

Mycroft’s men, whom Sherlock just shut out of the flat, assured him nothing has been moved. His eyes dart around the room, taking note of a few things, and he steps forward to the kitchen. One look in there is all he needs before he moves on to the bedroom. Not much to see there. He turns back almost at once, intending to return to the foyer-slash-living room, and finds his way blocked by John.

“Sherlock,” he says, his voice as soft as his eyes; the first word he’s said since they left Baker Street. James has been just as silent, and Sherlock only talked to the cab driver and Mycroft’s men.

Sherlock shakes his head, stopping whatever might come next.

“Let me do this,” he asks, more harshly than he meant to, and softens the demand with a, “Please.”

John’s hand brushes against Sherlock’s sleeve before falling down again.

“But that’s the thing. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Sherlock grits his teeth, and while he tries to hang on to his calm, it’s too frayed not to turn his words to ice.

“And whom do you suggest I should turn to for help?” he snaps. “This is on me. Whether it’s Moriarty or not, it’s always about me. All those messages have been meant for me.”

And it’s his fault if he’s been too distracted to do anything about it all.

“Right,” John says tightly. “I’ll give this back to the cats to play with, then, shall I?”

He opens his palm, and shows Sherlock the bit of plastic he’s holding.

“Syringe cap,” Sherlock murmurs as he picks it up. 

He brings it to his nose, but there’s no scent for him to detect. 

“Show me where it was,” he says curtly, and walks back to the living room.

James is sitting on the sofa, with a kitten curled on his lap. He’s petting it absently, but his attention is fully on the mirror across the room, and the red letters there.

“It was over there,” John says, pointing toward the entrance. “The big cats were pawing it across the floor.”

Sherlock noticed something when he walked in, a mark on the floor. He returns to it now, crouching and pulling out his magnifying glass to look more closely. 

When he opens the door, the two sullen men behind it are close to glaring. He couldn’t care less.

“CCTV,” he all but barks. “There must have been an ambulance in front of the building this morning, between 7.50 and 8.05. A gurney was wheeled into it and she was on it. Find it. Find where it went. _Now_.”

“How can you know that?” one of the men asks.

“It’s going to take a bit of time,” the other says. “No camera points directly here. We’re going to have to cross reference—”

“If it’s going to take time,” Sherlock interrupts, “why are you still here wasting it?”

He slams the door shut again and turns back to the room. He’s about to say they’re done here when James asks, his eyes still glued to the mirror, “How do you know?”

“Molly’s a creature of habit. The last two things she does before leaving for work are fill the cat’s food and water bowls and fill her travel mug with coffee. The bowls are still full. Her mug’s by the door with her purse and her keys. Her coat and scarf are gone. She was ready to go, opened her door, and someone was waiting for her outside. They pushed a gurney in, it left a mark on the floor. Molly is obsessive about her floors, she’d have cleaned that if it had been there for a while. They pulled out a syringe. She must have fought back or they wouldn’t have lost the syringe cap. They drugged her, put her on the gurney, took her away. Molly’s neighbors on this floor are still the same as three years ago. Old people, they don’t come out before mid morning at the earliest. The kidnappers avoided notice in the street by giving all appearances of being medical professionals.”

It’s all too obvious, but he takes no pleasure in laying it all out. No pleasure either in the way John’s eyes widen a bit as they go around the room and see what Sherlock saw. James doesn’t even react and merely asks, “What about when they find it on CCTV? What’s next?”

Next they have to figure out where the ambulance went. See if it’s still there. See if Molly is there—and if she’s alive. And take things from there.

Until then, there’s little to do but wait.

When they get back home, it’s past lunch time, a fact that John insists on pointing out. It doesn’t stop James from going up to his room without a word.

“Let him go,” Sherlock says when John looks like he’s going to call him back to the kitchen. 

John passes a hand over his face.

“He’s thirteen. He needs food, Sherlock. Maybe you can go the length of a case without eating but that doesn’t mean he can. Or should.”

Lying down on the sofa, Sherlock half-closes his eyes.

“He’ll eat when he’s hungry. Leave him be.”

“Are we still talking about James?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He’s fairly certain there’s no answer he can give that would satisfy John at this point. Instead, he continues reviewing the same facts again, half convinced he won’t find anything new from the accumulation of data gathered in the past week yet unable not to try one more time.

He couldn’t say quite how much time passes before John says his name practically from above him. From his tone of voice, he’s said it more than once.

“I’m going out,” he says when Sherlock looks at him.

Sherlock’s heart stutters before the words even begin to make sense.

“Out?” he sits up abruptly. “What do you mean, out? Out where? Why? You can’t go out. You could get taken too. It’s not a good idea.”

“I’m armed,” John says dryly, “I’ll undoubtedly have a couple of bodyguards trailing me, and I assure you, I _can_ go out and I will.” After a beat, he adds, more quietly, “I need some fresh air.”

It’s been a while since Sherlock heard those words. He knows exactly what they mean: he upset John somehow.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, vaguely aware that three years ago – even a few months ago – it wouldn’t have occurred to him to say those words, but that now they’re his first line of defense.

A half smile briefly touches John’s lips.

“Sorry about what?”

And that’s where the rub is, because Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s done. Is it the food thing? It can’t be the food thing, John is used to that, isn’t he?

“Sorry about whatever I did to make you want to get away from me.”

John takes a sharp breath and holds it for a second longer than normal. When he exhales, he shakes his head.

“It’s not about getting away from you,” he says quietly. “It’s… I haven’t been to the cemetery in a while.”

And what is there to answer to that?

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” John adds. “Text me if you go anywhere and I’ll join you there, okay?”

Sherlock nods, wishing he had a good, a really good argument to keep John home but understanding it’d be a mistake to try. Mary was fine with John visiting Sherlock; he can’t be any less gracious.

After taking a few steps toward the door, John stops abruptly and comes back. He cups the back of Sherlock’s neck in his hand and presses a hard kiss to his lips.

“I’m not upset,” he says when he pulls back, squeezing Sherlock’s neck once before letting go. “That doesn’t mean there aren’t things we need to talk about. But they can wait until all this madness calms down. All right?”

He waits until Sherlock nods again and leaves. Sherlock stands to go to the window and watches him walk down the street – watches the two men following him, and hopes they’re not the same idiots who managed to lose James yesterday.

When John has disappeared past a corner, Sherlock turns around, and finds James standing just inside the room, biting down on his thumb nail. He drops his hand at once and asks, “John left? Is he coming back soon?”

“He said a couple of hours. He’ll be safe.”

After a second, James murmurs a quiet, “Okay,” that doesn’t sound convinced in the slightest.

“You should eat something,” Sherlock says when the silence grows heavy.

James seems to hesitate, then finally says, “I’ll have tea if you have some too.”

Sherlock’s first instinct is to decline, but James’ expression is on the edge of being hopeful and he yields.

“I’ll make it,” James says, and busies himself in the kitchen. 

As he sits down, Sherlock wonders if he should say something about Molly. He hasn’t heard from Mycroft yet, which means there’s nothing new there; maybe it’s better to leave the topic alone until James brings it up – which he does when he carries two mugs to the sitting room and hands out one to Sherlock.

“I believe in you,” he says then, before taking a seat in John’s chair. “If anyone can solve this, I know it’s you. I just wish we knew how much time we have.”

The words touch Sherlock, though he would be hard pressed to say so aloud. He hopes he doesn’t end up disappointing James’ faith in him. He takes a sip of tea, and tries not to grimace at how sweet it is. Something must show on his face anyway because James frets at once.

“Did I put too much sugar? I forgot how you take it. I can make another cup if you want.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock lies, and drinks some more to prove it.

James relaxes a little and sips on his tea, looking up every so often as though to make sure Sherlock is still drinking, which he does, to the last drop.

“Do you want to…”

Practice the violin was what he meant to say, but a jaw-cracking yawn comes out of nowhere, as does a rush of sudden fatigue. It must be his bad night catching up with him. Maybe a small nap…

The thought makes him frown. A nap? Now? When he’s waiting for news, when John is out, when James is seeking his company? How can he be thinking about a nap? And how can he be so tired all of a sudden? Even chamomile doesn’t hit him that quickly, he thinks, absently peering at the mug in his hand, and it wasn’t chamomile he drank.

Something catches his attention and, squinting, he looks down into the empty mug. He isn’t sure, but he thinks there is something at the bottom, some kind of residue. Not sugar. He blinks repeatedly, and each time it’s a little harder to keep his eyes open.

“Wha…” His tongue feels like it doesn’t quite want to form words, but he tries again. “What di’ you do?”

Just as the mug is about to drop from his hand, James gently takes it from his nerveless fingers. He sets it on the coffee table, and sits down next to it, facing Sherlock.

“What I had to,” he says quietly. “I meant what I said. I believe in you. We just don’t have time. And you’ll be okay. I checked the dosage. It’s not going to hurt you. You’re just going to sleep for a bit, that’s all.”

Sherlock’s slowing mind still manages to make the connection. Sleep. Sedative. Pills. Mycroft’s. James said he used them, but he kept them. All this time, he had them, lied to Sherlock, prepared this—whatever this is.

“Why…”

Fighting back the lethargy trying to take him down, Sherlock pushes himself to his feet. Water. Splash water on his face. Cold shower if he needs to. Wake himself up. He must…

Before he can even take one step, James stands as well and sets both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. All it takes is a small push, and down Sherlock goes, back onto the sofa. Standing up took all he had and he can’t even manage to sit up. Gravity slowly takes him down sideways toward the pillow.

“I’m sorry,” James says. He’s sitting on the edge of the coffee table again, fingers clenched tightly together in front of him. “I really am. I can’t let Molly get hurt. Or you. Or John. I know you understand that. You jumped off a roof to keep the people you loved safe. You gave up your entire life for three years. And then you gave up John because you thought he’d be happier with Mary.”

John… If John comes back… How long was he gone? Not very long. He can’t be far. If Sherlock could just text him…

“I’m not doing anything as big as that,” James continues, and his voice sounds quieter now—or is that Sherlock slipping out of consciousness?

There was something he wanted to do, something… Yes. Text John. Phone. In his pocket.

“I’m just… I’m just giving this up. Living with you. You have John. You don’t need me.”

With jerky, unsteady movements, Sherlock reaches inside his jacket for his phone. He has to try twice to pull it out of his pocket, but finally he has it, and… And James leans forward to take it from him. There’s nothing Sherlock can do to stop him, or to stop his eyes from closing.

“I liked it, you know.” James’ words feel like they come from very, very far away. “Living here. I know I wasn’t always easy. I tried not to be a pain but sometimes I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry. When he came back I was so sure you were lying to me and I was so angry… I thought I’d punish you by keeping the texts from you. But then yesterday when you yelled at me I realized, you weren’t lying. You really believed it. And I should have showed them to you then, but I was scared that you’d be upset with me. Even more upset than you already were. I never wanted to upset you. It was a mistake and it’s too late to fix it now. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock jerks abruptly, regaining a little bit of consciousness and opening his eyes as James helps him turn so his face isn’t smashed into the pillow. He also lifts Sherlock’s legs, one after the other, setting them on the sofa so he’s lying on his side rather than bent at the waist. When James walks away, Sherlock tries to grab his hand but completely misses. He can’t see him anymore, but he can hear a few words that don’t seem to make much sense.

“Hello, it’s James Holmes. I need a ride please. To the centre, yes. How soon can you be there? Great, thank you.”

He comes back, sits down again. By now, he’s just a blurry shape, with something blue in his hands. Blue… his phone. He was talking on the phone. Centre. He’s going to the riding centre? Why? No, no, Mycroft won’t let it happen, he’ll see something’s wrong, he won’t send the car.

A quiet chime, and James puts down his phone, picking up Sherlock’s instead. Mycroft. It has to be. He sent a text. Why on earth didn’t he call?

James’ fingers tap a reply. Sherlock can only hope it’s not good enough to fool Mycroft.

“You know,” James starts again, “that first night when I asked to go with you, I was hoping… just hoping you’d be nicer than Sebastian. That wasn’t a very high bar. But you were a lot better than that. A lot better than Father, too. I should have told you more often. You were the best dad I could have imagined.”

Sherlock tries, as hard as he can, to say James’ name, to stop whatever is happening here, but if his lips move, no sound comes out. His eyes are drifting shut again.

“I liked going around to solve crimes with you. And to Bart’s. And to the museum. And to your mum’s. And I liked that you didn’t talk to me like I was a little kid. I was really proud to call you my dad. Really. At school… I didn’t tell you, but, that first day, when I went to take the test… another student recognized the name Holmes, and asked if I knew you, and when I said you were my dad I thought I’d feel bad, or like I was lying, but it wasn’t like that at all. It was like… like I felt at Christmas. Or on my birthday, before the video. I wish I’d called you ‘dad’ more often.”

With every last bit of strength and determination he possesses, the same stubborn refusal to give up that, twice in the past, made him dial Mycroft’s number when it would have been so easy to just slip away, Sherlock forces his hand to move, feeling it inch away on the sofa and toward James. If he can’t manage words, maybe he can hold on to him, show him he doesn’t want James to go, that they can still fix this. Together they can. But not if James leaves.

Maybe James understands what Sherlock is trying to do, because well before Sherlock is able to reach him, James takes his hand, both of his wrapping around it. Sherlock tries to tighten his fingers, but his wordless message seems lost on James.

“I’ll really miss you.” The words are a whisper, now, just catching on the ragged edge of Sherlock’s consciousness. “And John too, and Mycroft and your mum and everyone, but especially you. But please don’t look for me. I think he’ll hurt you if you do, and then it’ll all be for nothing. I’ll make him promise not to hurt you if you stay away. Please. Stay safe, you and John. Take care of him and I know he’ll take care of you.”

The whisper grows unsteady like it’s breaking apart, gray clouds falling to pieces and leaving Sherlock drenched and cold.

“And some day when I’m a grown up and he can’t keep me anymore, I’ll… I’ll come say hi, all right? And you can tell me about all the cases I missed and… and… everything. And until then I’ll be okay. I promise. Don’t worry about me. I know him, and I know how to stay out of trouble. I’m not a little kid anymore, I won’t make so many mistakes.”

The clouds grow thicker, darker again, thunder rumbling in the distance.

“And he owes me. I won’t let him forget that. Even if I have to tell him every last thing Sebastian did to me because he left me with him, I swear he’ll never forget it. And I’ll be fine. Just as long as you stay safe I’ll be fine. Please stay safe. Please keep everyone safe. Goodbye.”

Sherlock’s anchor releases him and he drifts away, caught in the winds of the storm, James’ name floating through his mind one last time before sleep claims every last bit of him.


	34. Gone

Sherlock can’t move, and it’s more than the chains around his wrists that hold him up, arms spread out enough to hurt, although not hurt enough to take away from the pain on his back. His whole body feels heavy with drowsiness – with sleep, but no, that’s not right, he hasn’t slept in days, not since setting foot in Serbia. Drugs, maybe? What could they have given him?

His mind feels slow, so slow that he doesn’t notice at first that his tormentor is gone, and that a new shadow has entered the room.

“Did you have fun playing Dad?” a sneering voice asks.

That voice is like a jolt to his system, and he manages to raise his head, eyes narrowing to squint at the shadows.

“Did you think you could make him yours?”

Slow steps echoes in the room, and the shadow is not a shadow anymore, but a dead man standing in front of Sherlock, watching him through eyes darker than coal. His suit is perfect, tie held in place by a silver pin, not a hair out of place; he looks as though they were back in a London courthouse rather than in a grimy underground lair.

“He could never be yours, Sherlock. Can’t you see? He’s mine. Every last bit of him is mine. He’s _me_.”

Moriarty’s hand rises to the side, and Sherlock tenses, expecting new blows to fall. But the gesture, he soon realizes, merely calls forward another shadow. And there stands James at his father’s side, dressed in a similarly impeccable suit, his eyes just as dark – just as blank.

“And I don’t take well to people who touch what’s mine,” Moriarty goes on, his tone suddenly darker.

He slips a nonchalant hand inside his jacket and draws out a gun.

“Is that so?” Sherlock manages, wheezing and coughing a little. “Tell that to Sebastian Moran, why don’t you. Oh wait, you can’t. Because _I_ killed him.”

James flinches ever so slightly at the mention of Moran, and Sherlock curses himself for saying his name. For a second or two, Moriarty’s hand, the same one that holds the gun, rests on James’ shoulder, though he doesn’t look down at him. His eyes remain on Sherlock, icy cold as he steps forward, just three steps, and strikes, again with the hand he holds the gun in. 

Pain flares through Sherlock, radiating from his jaw. His head snaps back, his entire body jerks in the confines of the chains. He grits his teeth not to make a sound.

“I’ll deal with Moran,” Moriarty all but growls, gripping Sherlock’s hair in his free hand and forcing his face up. “I’ll go to hell and give him exactly what I owe him for the past three years. With interest. And it’ll hurt a lot more than a broken neck, believe me. But first…”

He releases Sherlock and walks back to James, standing behind him, now. He extends his hand with the gun past James, bending down so he can say next to James’ ear, “You didn’t forget how to hold it, did you, Jamie?”

For all answer, James takes hold of the gun with both hands. He continues to point it straight ahead – straight at Sherlock. There’s no trace in his eyes or in his expression that he even knows who Sherlock is.

“James…”

The word feels like sandpaper in Sherlock’s throat. James doesn’t react to it at all, nor does he move a finger when Moriarty, glaring at Sherlock over his head, shouts, “Don’t talk to him!”

The next second, he’s back to a quiet, crooning voice.

“Safety.”

James clicks the safety off.

“Now decide where. Head’s an old favorite, but it ends things really fast. Heart, too. Stomach can make it last a while and it hurts a lot. So do knees and elbows, but they’re a tad harder to hit just right and you’ll need at least another bullet to finish the job.”

The gun moves, up, down, to the sides as Moriarty speaks, and finally stops. Moriarty lowers himself again, his eyes at the same level as James’ as he looks down the barrel of the gun, and he grins.

“Heart. That’s my boy. Remember, breathe in, block, squeeze the trigger, exhale.”

“James,” Sherlock says again, and this time it’s a whisper. “Don’t. Please.”

“I always love it when they beg for their lives,” Moriarty cackles. “Don’t you, Jamie?”

But it’s not his own life Sherlock is begging for. He’s just recognized that look in James’ eyes – that absence of everything. He knows what it means, knows what James is about to do.

“Don’t,” he says again, right as Moriarty says, “Do it.”

And James does. In one quick, smooth movement, he turns the gun toward his own opening mouth. Sherlock closes his eyes and screams.

He doesn’t hear the shot.

He doesn’t hear anything.

He tries to open his eyes, but he can’t, they refuse to obey him, and he’s just trapped in this darkness as though in a bad dream.

Something touches his cheek. A light tap, nothing more. No pain.

“Mr. Holmes? Can you hear me Mr. Holmes?”

The voice seems very, very far away.

Another touch. His eyelid, this time. Someone’s shining a bright light in his eye.

“Mr. Holmes.” Louder, now. “Can you open your eyes for me? Can you hear me, Mr. Holmes?”

Forgetting his arms are shackled, Sherlock tries to move his hand to push that blinding light away from his face. Except, there are no chains anymore. His arm moves, a jerky motion that doesn’t reach the light by a long shot, but it still goes away.

“That’s it,” that same voice says. “Open your eyes now.”

Female. Late thirties. Used to giving orders. Sherlock has no idea who it might be, nor does he particularly care right this second.

His eyelids weigh a ton each, but slowly, ever so slowly, they flutter open, revealing a world that’s fuzzy all over, and a silhouette leaning over him. Speaking is harder still, but he gives it his best shot.

“J-jay… where… James…”

If the woman understands his question, she gives no sign of it and asks, “Were you drugged? Do you know with what? Was it an injection?”

Sherlock tries to shake his head; it barely moves. His body feels like it’s wrapped in cotton wool.

“Pills,” he manages to say. “Sleepin’ pills. Where’s James?”

The image of the woman leaning above him is a little clearer as he blinks repeatedly. She still doesn’t answer his question and pulls away, disappearing from sight. With a grunt, Sherlock presses his hands to the sofa and pushes as much as he can. His body moves up, though not quite enough to get him to a sitting position. He’s about to give up and lie down again when the woman returns. She sets down a glass of water on the coffee table next to a blue phone and grabs Sherlock’s shoulders, helping him sit up. Retrieving the glass, she brings it to his lips.

“Slow sips,” she says. “I’m making coffee and that will wake you up better, but water will help a little.”

He takes a few sips of the ice-cold water, and it does help clear up his mind a little. He raises a hand, and manages to take hold of the glass. She lets go and takes a step back, observing him critically. He returns the look, recognizing her face as one he’s seen repeatedly around Baker Street in the past few days.

“You work for Mycroft?” he asks before taking another sip.

She nods. “I do. Mr. Holmes asked me to come in and check on you. Are you feeling all right? Any pain, dizziness, discomfort of any kind?”

He shakes his head. His body seems to be returning under his control.

“Where is James?” he asks. “Did your people stop him?”

Yet again, she doesn’t answer. Puling a phone out from her pocket, she steps over to the window and looks out as she places a call. It’s quickly obvious whom she’s speaking to.

“He’s all right, sir. Drugged with sleeping pills, apparently.” A pause, and then, “No, it’s not necessary. He just needs a bit of time to wake up completely. Caffeine will help. I’m brewing some coffee right now. He asked about the boy. What should I…” Another pause. “Yes, sir.”

She hangs up and crosses the room to the kitchen with barely a glance at Sherlock.

“What did he tell you to tell me?” Sherlock asks. His fingers are clenched on the glass much more tightly than is needed.

Only when she returns with a mug full of coffee does she reply, and even then it’s not anything Sherlock wants to hear.

“Your brother will be here in just a moment. Here, take this. Careful it’s hot.”

He lets her take the glass, accepts the mug in return, but doesn’t take a sip right away, instead resting the full mug on his leg. Mycroft wants to tell him about James in person. That can’t possibly be good.

For a moment, he stares ahead of him, not quite seeing anything, not drinking the coffee as she urges him to do. He’s trying to remember what James said before leaving. He recalls bits of it, a little disjointed, and that repeated request not to come after him. He remembers James’ hands, tight over his as though he didn’t want to let go even as he was saying goodbye. He remembers something else, too.

Texts.

James received texts.

And his phone, the bright blue iPhone Sherlock bought him the first day they spent together is _right there_.

He moves abruptly forward to reach for the phone on the coffee table, forgetting the mug in his hand. Coffee sloshes over the rim and soaks his trousers, burning his thigh. He swears, and the woman clearly wants to do the same. She gets him a towel from the kitchen, and tuts when she returns and finds him clutching the phone in one hand.

“Drink the coffee,” she says strongly, dabbing at his leg with a little too much force. “It’ll clear your mind and then you can call whoever you want.”

She tries to take the phone from him, recoiling when he glares at her.

“Try that again,” he says as coldly as he can manage, “and I won’t get you fired. I’ll have him send you to bloody Siberia.”

She glares right back, fingers twitching as though wanting to curl over a weapon – or maybe just in a fist. She turns her back on him and goes to drop the towel back in the kitchen. When she returns, she positions herself by John’s chair and crosses her arms. Sherlock barely pays her any mind.

He does take a sip from the coffee. It’s hot, and bitter, and as she promised, it helps more than the icy water, but he still sets the mug down on the table so he can focus on the phone. He quickly finds a series of phone messages sent by an unidentified number.

He reads the last ones first, clenching his teeth as he sees James bargain himself in exchange for Molly’s release. Those texts were sent today, after they came back from her flat. When James went up to his room and Sherlock told John to just leave him alone.

Scrolling back, Sherlock goes to the very first text sent from that number. A happy birthday message for James. And while James at first refused to reply, his silence didn’t last very long. His heart tightening with each of the sixty eight messages James received – and the twenty two he sent in return – Sherlock scrolls through the texts twice.

Every day.

Every single day since James’ birthday, messages have come in. Almost every time, the exchanges were initiated by that unknown person James was so quick to believe was his father. And Sherlock can see, now, why he believed. It’s well done. Very, very well done. It’s easy to read each message and imagine Moriarty’s voice saying these words. But at no point in all this does James’ correspondent sign his messages, either with initials or his full name. At no point does he plainly claim to be James’ father. James assumed, talked to that person as though it were Jim Moriarty, and his correspondent simply played along.

If James had shown these to Sherlock, it would have been easy to point this out, to suggest prodding questions, something only James’ father could have known. But James kept quiet, silenced by his anger against what he perceived as Sherlock lying to him, and Sherlock didn’t notice. Not the depth of his anger, and not the fact that he was receiving messages.

It was only yesterday, when James’ ran away, that Sherlock first had the idea that someone might have called or texted him. He intended to check his phone, but in the midst of all the pain, all the drama that ensued, it slipped his mind.

And now…

His fist clenches over the phone until pain starts to register.

Now it’s too late. James is gone. If Mycroft’s people had stopped him, the woman would have said.

Rage courses through Sherlock until he’s shaking. He’s about to throw the phone away from him when it rings. He looks at the display, stupidly hoping to see James’ name but how could he when he’s holding James’ phone? Instead, it’s John. Sherlock takes the call, but he doesn’t know what to say other than John’s name.

“Sherlock? Are you all right? Where’s James? Mycroft sent a car but he didn’t bloody say anything!”

The words are hard to get out, Sherlock’s throat closed by shame and anger.

“He drugged me,” he says, choking on the admission. “Sleeping pills in my tea. And then he left.”

“He did _what_?” When Sherlock doesn’t answer right away, he goes on. “I’m almost home, I’ll be there in a few minutes. We’ll get him back, okay? Everything will be fine.”

Sherlock can’t say anything so he hangs up, just as Mycroft walks in and, with a simple nod, dismisses his lackey. The woman looks fairly content to have permission to leave. She scurries away.

“Tell me you have him,” Sherlock asks, not looking at Mycroft.

Mycroft’s silence is anything but a surprise.

“Tell me,” he says, more harshly now, “that you didn’t actually believe I would send him out today of all days.”

Mycroft steps forward. He shows Sherlock the screen of his phone. Two texts.

_James just called for a car to take him riding. Is that really what’s best right now?  
MH_

_If I ever need parenting advice, be sure you’ll be the last person I ask.  
SH_

“I take it you did not write this?”

Sherlock doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he mirrors Mycroft’s gesture, showing him the screen of James’ phone.

“You bugged his laptop. Right idea, wrong device.”

Mycroft takes the phone and steps back. He sits down rather abruptly in Sherlock’s chair and spends a few quiet moments scrolling through the texts the way Sherlock did.

“I asked for surveillance on his phone,” he finally says. “But I only did yesterday, after he ran away. I expect the first report will come in sometime today.”

Sherlock scoffs and gets to his feet. He starts pacing back and forth through the sitting room, his fists closed on either side of him. He wants to curse Mycroft, sneer at him, taunt him about all his power amounting to exactly nothing. But every last ounce of anger he could throw at Mycroft would only be displaced. He’s mad at himself. Mad he didn’t suspect those texts. Mad he didn’t make anything of James being suddenly inseparable from his phone and spending so much time on his own. Mad that he didn’t realize James’ insistence that this was his father might have other reasons than his mixed hopes and fears. Mad that James thought it was necessary for him to save Molly, save all of them, when that was Sherlock’s role.

Mad that he ever deluded himself into thinking he was good enough to call himself James’ father.

Mad that he was proved wrong.

Anger bursts out of him and he seizes the mug on the table. He throws it at the wall between the windows. Coffee splashes over the desk and to the floor, shards of porcelain scattering everywhere. Mycroft doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Christ, Sherlock!” John exclaims behind him. “What…”

He falls silent when Sherlock turns to face him.

“If you’re quite finished,” Mycroft says dryly, “maybe you’d like to hear what happened?”

Sherlock whirls toward him, incensed.

“What happened?” he repeats. “I’ll tell you what happened. James gave up on us. He watched us fumble for a week without getting any closer to figuring this out and he decided he’d fix it himself. And me…” His voice rises, along with the need to smash something else. He clenches his fists until his nails dig into his palms. “I didn’t see it coming. I was completely blindsided by a teenager. And now he’s gone because he didn’t trust me to keep him safe!”

He kicks the coffee table up, flipping it onto its side.

All the commotion finally summons Mrs. Hudson. She comes in with protests about the noise, continues with recriminations about her wall, and Sherlock is about to scream at her to get out when John expresses the same idea in a more civil manner. She leaves with mutters and loud huffs, and silence falls over the flat again.

“All right,” John says after a moment, and now Sherlock wants to scream at him because there’s nothing ‘all right’ about the situation. “I want to hear it. Mycroft? What happened?”

Mycroft tells them everything, his voice perfectly level throughout. Each word saps a little more strength from Sherlock and he ends up sitting down again, head bowed, his fingers gripping his hair.

“James called for a car to take him to the riding centre. He entered the centre at a quarter to three and went to the locker rooms. Ten minutes later, every CCTV camera in a twenty miles radius went offline. One of the men attached to his surveillance went to check on him. All he found was James’ clothes, including his coat and boots, an empty backpack, and a smashed phone. We thought it was his, but I’m guessing it was Sherlock’s. From what we put together, he left behind everything he’d brought with him, changed into a different set of clothes, and exited the centre with an unidentified male through a safety exit.” A pause, and he finishes more quietly, “We’re looking but right now there’s no trace of him.”

It all adds up to the same thing Sherlock said: James is gone.

Except that no, it’s even worse than that. They made him strip. A stranger – ‘my people’, the text message said – had James strip down. Sherlock can only imagine the panic attack that ensued.

“Why would they make him change clothes?” John asks, apparently stuck on the same detail Sherlock is. “If they wanted to change his appearance, his coat would have been enough.”

“For the same reason they smashed the phone they believed to be his,” Sherlock said dully. “Because it might be bugged. Because we could have inserted a GPS transmitter in a seam, with or without his knowledge.”

And because, in the end, they don’t know a thing about him, and certainly not enough to avoid hurting him or triggering him by accident.

“So how do we find him?” is John’s next question.

Silence is the only answer he gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13 of Echoes of Love and Absence shows the texts referenced here.  
> Chapter 14 is about John going out in the previous chapter.


	35. Of Course

It used to be that Sherlock’s mind palace was a place of pure order and logic. Nothing existed there unless Sherlock had deliberately created it, and nothing could endure unless he allowed it to.

And then…

And then things changed.

 _Sherlock_ changed.

He didn’t understand it at first – didn’t understand why, or how. But hindsight being what it is, he does, now.

The first change that appeared on its own and persisted despite Sherlock’s best efforts was the padded cell at the lowest level and its straightjacket-clad occupant. That particular addition came up shortly after the incident at the pool, and at the time Sherlock attributed it to the shock of being confronted to someone so clever, so dangerous… so _interesting_. And so much like him.

He was wrong; he figured that out later on, when more changes started to take place – when John started creeping up into his mind and making room for himself in Sherlock’s neatly ordered palace. Small details, memories, images… everything that had made up their shared days in 221B. Everything that Sherlock, in his exile, missed.

And that was when Sherlock started to truly understand – when he realized that the very first change had taken place when he’d found John wrapped in semtex; when he’d watched him remain so completely calm and in full possession of himself despite the danger; when John had leaped into action, only backing away because Sherlock’s life, not his own, had been on the line; when he’d given Sherlock permission, with just a look, to blow the bomb, and Moriarty – and probably the two of them as well. When, maybe, Sherlock’s subconscious had started to think it might be better if he was a little less like Moriarty, and a little more like the idea John had of him.

Caring was not an advantage according to Mycroft, and there Sherlock had a very concrete proof of it: sentiment had carved out a place for John Watson in the middle of his very mind, and all Sherlock could do was accept it, and try to at least organize things a little.

When another room started to fill up with sheep, and foxes, and cigarette butts, and a collection of perfectly knotted ties, and a gleaming grand piano with the memory of a smile or a laugh attached to one third of the keys… well, by then Sherlock knew better than to try to fight the change. And he knew what it meant, too.

But it’s worse than that, worse than a bit of chaos in Sherlock’s palace. Sentiment dulled his mind, slowed him, blinded him.

Head bowed and eyes closed, he now sifts through the room, through memories he’s filed away while barely aware of it, finding new meaning for some things.

James, requesting a harsher punishment than the writing on an apology letter, suggesting that riding be forbidden to him; by then, he knew someone had watched him ride.

James’ phone, always at hand, drawing his eyes even when completely silent; either he removed the sound alert for that particular number, or set up one of those ring tones that chime in ranges too high for adults to hear them.

James’ refusal to be left alone; was it truly the fear that he’d be taken that motivated him, or even then the need to stay close so he could keep Sherlock and John safe?

James’ questions, weeks ago, about his father’s state of mind when he pulled the trigger, his guilt that he didn’t guess at an hypothetical depression; of course he’d want to believe Moriarty was alive, better that than to accept the alternative.

It all clicks together, the room revealing secrets Sherlock didn’t even know to look for, but it’s too late. All Sherlock can do is curse himself for not understanding everything sooner.

For not understanding James any better.

Would James have stayed, if he had?

“Sherlock, don’t,” John says very quietly even as his hands curl up around Sherlock’s fingers, forcing them to release the strands of hair he’s all but tearing off his scalp.

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, even more quietly, and Sherlock can’t bear the sound of those words, not any more than he can bear the gentleness with which John holds both his hands.

It _is_ his fault, and if John can’t see that it’s surely because sentiment is blinding him. The same way it blinded Sherlock. How long until John can see clearly again? Will it hurt then as much as it does now?

Freeing his hands, he pushes himself to his feet. John steps back to let him pass, and Sherlock walks over to the window, only to immediately come back toward Mycroft when an idea suddenly appears.

“The number,” he says, words passing his lips faster and faster. “The number he got texts from. Can your people trace it? Or track it?”

Mycroft gives him a long look before handing him the phone.

“They never managed to get anywhere with the number that sent us all that video,” he says, pulling his own phone out. “But I suppose it’s worth a try. Give me a minute.”

He makes a short call, gives a few orders, then gives Sherlock a nod.

“Go ahead. Call it.”

Sherlock does just that, his heart in his throat. He has no idea what he’ll say if someone answers, but he’ll have to say _something_ to keep whoever it is on the line long enough to be tracked.

In his ear, the phone rings, and rings, and rings, but no one answers, and the call never goes to voice mail.

With a raging finger, he hangs up and switches to text messages, typing furiously.

_If you lay ONE FINGER on him, a bullet going through your brain will be the very least of your worries.  
SH_

Almost as soon as he hits send, an error message pops up: _not delivered_. Dark, overwhelming anger floods him. Smashing the phone feels almost necessary, but he can’t do it. It’s James’. He left it behind, but maybe he’ll want it back when he comes back.

If he comes back.

There’s little Sherlock wouldn’t give for James to come back, and soon, not in a few years like he said he would.

Will he even want to, by then? Would he want to now?

Stepping away from both Mycroft and John, he scrolls through the texts again, willing himself to see something in them, a clue, anything that might help, that he might have missed, that he might have been blind to because of bloody _sentiment_.

But there’s nothing new there for him to figure out.

He’s on his second re-read when a phone rings. Not the one he holds; Mycroft’s. Sherlock looks up at him sharply, listening intently to Mycroft’s few words.

“Bring her up. Full debrief on the cab driver. Let me know if you get anything.”

‘Her’, Mycroft says as he hangs up, is Molly, who was just deposited in front of 221B by a cab. One of his lackeys takes her upstairs, supporting her with an arm around her waist despite her feeble protests.

“I’m fine,” she keeps repeating. “Really. You can let go.”

But when the man does let go right inside the sitting room, she wavers a little, and might fall down if not for John rushing forward to help her to the sofa.

“Are you dizzy?” he asks at once, his fingers on her wrist, taking her pulse. “Lightheaded?”

She shakes her head. “Just sleepy. They’ve kept me drugged since this morning.”

John’s fingers move to her face, now, gently touching the bruise high on her cheek that threatens to extend into a black eye.

“What about this? Does it hurt?”

Before she can answer, the question Sherlock has been trying to hold back bursts out of him.

“Did you see James? Did you talk to him?”

When her eyes rise toward him, they’re full of tears.

“Sherlock,” John hisses. “She’s hurt. This can wait a minute.”

“No it can’t,” Sherlock shoots back. “One minute could be the difference between finding him and—”

“He’s gone,” Molly interrupts quietly. “I don’t know where, I just know that when they had me climb into the taxi he was getting into another car with the men that took me. He looked fine. They didn’t hurt him. I think they were afraid of him.” Her brow furrows a little. “He threatened one of them because he’d done this.” She gestures vaguely at her face. “He said… he said he’d tell his father and that the man would be lucky to get out of it alive. He didn’t mean you, did he? But his father can’t be alive. He just can’t.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, and asks instead, “What else did he say? Did he talk to you?”

She nods slightly, and murmurs a word of thanks when John hands her a towel filled with ice.

“I was just coming out of it and still half asleep,” she says as she presses the towel to her cheek. “But I think he said… he said he was sorry, and that it was his fault I’d been taken, but that I’d be fine now. And he said to tell you…”

Sherlock’s heart stutters when she pauses to swallow, and it’s all he can do not to shake her so she’ll speak faster.

“He said to tell you not to look for him.”

Sherlock snorts and strides past her to the entrance.

“Where are you going?” John asks as Sherlock slides his coat on.

“To look for him,” Sherlock says dryly. “I’ll have that cabbie take me where he picked up Molly.”

“I told you,” Molly says behind John. “He’s not there.”

Sherlock doesn’t bother replying. He’s halfway down the staircase when John catches up with him.

“I’d rather go alone,” he says, though he knows John won’t listen – and indeed, he doesn’t.

Mycroft’s people are just about done talking to the driver, who looks fairly ill-tempered, no doubt because he’s losing time, and money. The promise of a double fare to make up for the inconvenience soothes him a bit, and soon he’s taking Sherlock and John to a street a short distance away from the riding centre. Using James’ phone, Sherlock texts Mycroft, asking him to ask Molly to describe where she was taken. The empty office building she apparently vaguely remembers is easy to find, as is the place where she was kept: an ambulance gurney and a handful of syringes have been left behind, with a few chairs scattered around the room, one of them at a desk where dust reveals a laptop was set recently.

Sherlock roams through the room, examining everything, observing as closely as he ever did – and ignoring the shadow trailing after him. He can’t afford distractions now, and doesn’t reply when John asks if he’s found something.

The truth is, he’s not finding anything helpful. The carpet is spotless except for a bit of white fluff that he slides in a plastic bag. No dirt, no foreign elements, none of those giveaways that criminals always leave behind. As though they’d been warned that any trace might be found and exploited.

“Sherlock,” John says, raising his voice so that exasperation leaks through; he’s said Sherlock’s name twice already. “Come look at this.”

He’s standing by the back wall. Sherlock goes reluctantly. He did notice the piece of paper pinned to a corkboard when he walked in, but he’s afraid to know what the note says.

It’s written in red, as always. Unsigned. The handwriting might be the same as the second note, though Sherlock would need to look at both notes together to be sure. It’s longer than the previous messages.

_He doesn’t want me to hurt you and I said I wouldn’t. Don’t come for him. I’d hate to have to go back on my promise._

Sherlock has seen enough. He strides out, needing fresh air. Mycroft must have sent a forensics team, because a few men are suiting up outside the building. The cabbie waited, as Sherlock asked. He takes them back to Baker Street. John, thankfully, doesn’t say anything.

The flat is empty when they get there. John asks Sherlock something but the words don’t register. Pulling the plastic bag from his pocket, Sherlock shrugs out of his coat and climbs up to James’ room.

Is it still his room, now that he’s gone? His things are still there, but somehow the room feels empty and cold already; abandoned. Sherlock feels the same way.

Another bit of white fluff, identical to the one Sherlock found in the office, rests on the neatly made bed next to a few short strands of white thread. Sherlock rubs the fluff between his fingers, feeling the loose texture. When he turns to the bookshelf and looks at the very bottom, he already knows the sheep plush toy won’t be there.

His eyes drift up, next, but again, it’s not a surprise to discover that the Little Prince book is missing from its spot on the middle shelf.

The rest of the books is still there as far as Sherlock can see. So are the piano, and the violin case tucked into the corner. The laptop is on the window sill. The half-used tube of cream supposed to minimize scars lies on the night table. If Sherlock opens the dresser, surely all of James’ clothes will be there.

As far as Sherlock can see, James only took two things with him when he left: the toy, and the book. Mycroft didn’t mention either of them being found at the centre, so he must have been allowed to keep them. The bit of loose fluff seems to confirm as much. Did he know anything else would be taken from him? Or were those the only things he wanted to keep? Is he so keen on forgetting the few months he spent here? He said he enjoyed living with Sherlock, but what if he was only trying to soften the blow? He’s a resourceful, clever boy, who started plotting his exit days ago when he stole those pills, who kept crucial information secret, who left James Holmes behind to go back to being James Moriarty.

And who repeatedly asked Sherlock not to come for him.

He was fine, Molly said. He threatened the henchmen, the same way his father might have. How quickly he turned cold again…

It’s only when a light hand touches Sherlock’s cheek that he startles out of his thoughts and realizes John is in front of him. He couldn’t say how long John has been there – or even how long Sherlock himself has been standing in the middle of this room, lost in his thoughts.

“Tell me what’s going on in that mind of yours,” John asks quietly. “You haven’t said a word in almost two hours.”

Sherlock shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to explain to John what’s suddenly so obvious to him.

Of course James left.

Why would he have stayed?

It’s not as though anyone has ever wanted to stay with Sherlock.

It’s not as though John will want to, in the end.


	36. Breaking Point

Over the next few days, people find it necessary to come visit. It’s tedious to the extreme.

Lestrade comes three times with no interesting news whatsoever. He accepts offers of tea or coffee from John, talks with him in shushed voices or stands by Sherlock, looking at the printouts from Sherlock’s virtual crime wall now pinned to the actual wall. The second time, he even brings in Donovan, and she, too, looks at the accumulation of data that leads absolutely nowhere. At least she has the good sense not to say anything.

Molly comes back, too, now fully awake, her black eye already fading, though apparently still upset. The way she wrings her hands sets Sherlock’s nerves on edge.

Mycroft drops by five times, each time with some minimally relevant piece of information he could just as well have send by text or email.

Mrs. Hudson keeps popping in with biscuits or treats, offering to make tea or do a spot of cleaning. Once, she starts going up to clean James’ room. John is very cross when Sherlock snaps at her and makes her flee.

It takes a while, but Sherlock finally realizes why everyone is suddenly so keen to spend a few somber moments in his sitting room. They and others did the same thing months ago with John. They’re acting as though James is dead, as though Sherlock is grieving and needs comforting. The realization is unpleasant. After that, whenever Sherlock hears someone come up, he locks himself in the loo until they’re gone again. If John notices, he says nothing.

Other than berating Sherlock the one time he’s rude to Mrs. Hudson, John seems strangely subdued. He keeps offering food to him, tea, scotch, even plain water, but never complains if the dishes, glasses or cups remain untouched. At night, he asks Sherlock to come to bed, or to at least get some sleep on the sofa, always sighing deeply when Sherlock declines though without pushing any further. During the day, he makes suggestions about Sherlock getting dressed, about going out for some fresh air, even going to the various crime scenes again in hopes that some deduction will magically appear.

He always placed too much faith in Sherlock. If Sherlock was half as clever as John thinks he is, he’d have found James and brought him home by now.

Assuming he’d want to come back to Baker Street.

But as hard as Sherlock stares at the pictures on his wall or the messages on James’ phone, there’s nothing for him to find. Nothing at all, except more questions than he has answers for.

He’s memorized the messages by now, and still he keeps reading them – keeps trying to send a text to that number, to no avail.

_I know this is your number._

James’ number was in Mycroft’s file about him, the one his employee leaked, among other documents. Sherlock should have paid closer attention to that.

_I could never abide rudeness._

It’s not a threat, not exactly, but it does sound like a warning. Jim Moriarty disciplined his son to the point of leaving bruises; parenting behavior is oftentimes learned from example. If Jim Moriarty’s father has James – if Sherlock was right about this one thing when he was wrong or oblivious about so many others – how will he punish James when he makes a mistake? Has he made one yet? When he left he said he’d know how to stay out of trouble, but he thought he was going to his father, not a stranger.

_JM_

Every time Sherlock sees those two letters, an unprompted affirmation of James’ identity, he wants to break something.

_By the way, you can show these to Sherlock Holmes if you want to._

But James didn’t want to. Not until it was too late to do any good.

_I think you’d have liked that too._

Would he? Would James have wanted to watch Moran – a living Moran – be tortured as revenge for what he did to him? He didn’t reply to that text. Sherlock doesn’t believe it’s true – doesn’t _want_ to believe it. But even if it’s not true now, is it something James could acquire a taste for?

_The violin? Really? What happened to playing the piano?_

Does James have a baby grand on which to play, wherever he is? Does he miss his violin even a little bit?

_If you hurt anyone I care about I WILL KILL YOU._

James made that threat just hours after raising a gun to his own head when he was by all appearances still upset, but Sherlock believes he meant the threat. He wishes he didn’t, but he does believe. And he’s not the only one. No one else has died since James sent that message, and Sherlock doesn’t believe in coincidences.

Shutting down James’ phone after going through the messages one more time, Sherlock pockets it and looks up across the room to the wall covered in print outs. Or he would if John wasn’t standing right in front of him. How long has he been there?

Without a word, he holds out a slim box to Sherlock, who takes it reflexively. He knows what it contains before he opens it. Anyone would know with that logo on the front. Still, he lifts the lid and takes the gleaming phone out, raising a questioning eyebrow up at John.

“Look at the back,” John says quietly.

Sherlock flips the phone in his hand, running his thumb over the engraving even as he reads it.

_Sherlock Holmes_  
 _From John_  
 _xxx_

He remembers, of course. A different phone, and different names, but the pattern is the same. A reminder, maybe, to how they started – as though Sherlock needs a reminder.

He’s about to ask what this is about when John says, “Happy birthday.”

Sherlock can only stare at him. After a few seconds, he manages words.

“It’s not my birthday.”

“No, your birthday was a week ago. And that box has been on the table in front of you for as long. I was wondering if you’d ever open it.”

Looking at the phone again, Sherlock frowns slightly.

“I don’t need a phone,” he says. “I have this.”

He pulls out the blue phone, holding it next to the new one. They look so similar… and yet.

“I miss him too,” John says bluntly.

His hands are fisted at his sides, the left one flexing every so often. He holds himself rigidly, the way he does when he expects an argument. His lips are set in a grim line as he repeats, just a little louder, “I miss him too, all right?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He has no idea what is ‘all right’ about any of it, no idea why John is even saying this now. Before he can ask what this is about, John takes his headshake as a denial of his claim.

“What, you think you’re the only one who cares about him? You think only you could see what a great kid he is? Everyone saw that, Sherlock. Everyone he met cares about him, and is worried about him. Everyone wants him back. Me included. Not because that’s what you want, not because you’re in pain and it kills me to see you like that, but because I. Miss. Him. Too!”

Strange how Sherlock can understand every word that passes John’s lips and still not be able to divine what brought them up.

“Then you understand why I need to—”

“Why you need to shut yourself off from the world?” John cuts in, anger growing in his voice. “Why you can’t feed yourself properly? Why you’ve barely slept at all in more than a week? Why you can’t say his bloody name? Is that what I’m supposed to understand, Sherlock? Because I don’t. None of it -- _none of it_ will help us get him back.”

John has stepped closer during his rant, and Sherlock is starting to feel cornered. He pushes himself out of his chair and takes a few steps away, pocketing the blue phone and setting the other one on the desk.

“That’s how I work,” he says, gritting his teeth. “You’ve seen me do it often enough.”

John shakes his head. “Not like this,” he says more calmly. “Never like this.”

“But it’s never been like this, has it?” Sherlock’s voice is rising, and he doesn’t know why he has to explain this, why John can’t see it. “It’s never been about someone I… someone…”

“Someone you love,” John finishes for him, his lips curling in something that’s much too sad to be called a smile.

“Someone I _failed_!” Sherlock all but shouts. “I was supposed to protect him. To make him feel safe. Isn’t that what parents do? And I never knew he was in contact with a murderer. Night after night of nightmares, and I didn’t realize why they were getting worse. I didn’t _observe_ , John. Me. Seeing what other people don’t is what I do, it’s the only thing I know how to do, that and alienate the people around me, but I can’t see anymore, sentiment has blinded me like Mycroft said it would. All of this—” He turns to the wall, then; two strides and he’s there, tearing at the pictures, pins and bits of paper flying everywhere. “—is completely useless because he’s gone and he doesn’t want to be found and he doesn’t want to be here and soon you won’t—”

He clamps his mouth shut before saying anything more, anything that just might give John the idea that it’s okay to leave, if he hasn’t been thinking about it already.

His arms fall at his side and he stares unseeingly at the ruined wall.

For days, he’s been trying not to think about it, but now the truth is out and he can’t take it back. If James wanted to be found, he’d have left a trail, the way he left clues when he was with Moran even though he didn’t know who was tracking them. Sherlock thought for a while that the white fluff from inside the sheep might be that trail, but it led nowhere. So there it is: the accumulation of clues Sherlock just destroyed wasn’t useless because he couldn’t get anything out of it. It was useless because James is where he wants to be, and what right does Sherlock have to say otherwise?

A hand closes on Sherlock’s arm, ever so gently and still he startles at the touch. He’s avoided touching John for days, weaning himself from contact in anticipation of John leaving. Now, though, he lets John turn him around, lets him rest both hands on his face and tilt it down.

Is this it? Is this when John says goodbye? Sherlock blinks a few times and braces himself.

“I won’t what?” John asks. “I won’t want to stay either? Is that what you think?”

Sherlock holds very still, suppressing the urge to nod.

“You know what _I_ think?” John adds very quietly. “I think you’re talking out of your arse. I’m not going to leave, so you can put that right out of your silly head. And loving people, whether it’s him or me, didn’t make you any less clever. You’ve always been a show off. If anything _sentiment_ as you say should make you perform better so you can impress us even more. The truth is, as clever as you are, you were beaten.”

Sherlock’s relief at hearing John won’t leave vanishes in a flash at those bitter words.

“We all were,” John goes on. “You, me, Scotland Yard, even your brother with all his resources. We were outwitted by someone who took his time in coming at us and who manipulated all of us. Including James. What was the point of that video on his birthday? To make you doubt, or at least to make James doubt you. Same for those murders. The way they were planned, the notes, the methods of killing… from day one it has all been about confusing us so that we wouldn’t see what was right in front of us, so he could keep talking to James without us suspecting a thing. And he won that fight. He got what he wanted and James went to him. True enough. But don’t believe for one second that’s what James wanted. That child loves you, Sherlock. I don’t know if he told you but there’s nothing more obvious to me, except how much you love him in return. And if those pictures or messages aren’t enough, then we’ll just have to go and get more clues, because right now there’s a boy somewhere out there waiting for you to come for him and we’re not going to disappoint him, are we?”

John’s thumbs are stroking Sherlock’s cheeks; they feel wet, for some incomprehensible reason. At some point Sherlock’s hands have closed on John’s wrists but rather than pushing him away he’s holding on for dear life.

“You don’t know that he’s waiting,” Sherlock hears himself say, but it doesn’t sound like him at all. “He said not to look for him.”

“I do know that,” John says, not a trace of doubt in his words. “I thought you were dead and still I was waiting for you to come back. Of course he’s wai—”

Sherlock doesn’t know he’s moving, doesn’t even know he intends to move until his mouth is pressed against John’s, swallowing his last words and trying to capture his certainty, too.

After days of keeping his distances, John’s mouth and hands are far from enough, and Sherlock finds himself needing more of him, craving more contact, and hoping it can chase away the darkness from his mind if only for a little while. He never breaks the kiss as he finds the buttons of John’s shirt, but when he pushes it down his arms, forcing John’s hands off his face, John pulls back, blinking, frowning slightly.

“What are you—”

Sherlock doesn’t let him finish and crushes their mouths together again. When his fingers tug John’s trousers open, a jolt passes through John and he finally starts moving. In a second, he’s pushed Sherlock’s dressing gown off his shoulders. His t-shirt is next, causing their mouths to part again when it comes up. John’s lips are back on Sherlock’s skin at once, mouthing his jaw, licking his neck, biting down on his shoulder when Sherlock’s hand slides inside his pants to hold his hardening prick.

Sherlock gasps, his fingers tightening and drawing a matching sound from John. John’s hands cup Sherlock’s arse, pressing him forward until they’re cock to cock and shifting against each other, the layers of fabric between them a delicious torture. Sherlock pulls back, not to get away from John but to lower himself to the sofa behind him before his knees start to buckle. John follows, though before he straddles Sherlock’s lap he finishes to pull his trousers and pants off, and tugs Sherlock’s pajama bottoms off him.

In moments, they’re rutting against each other again, this time skin to skin, and if Sherlock is clinging to John’s shoulders and back it’s to keep him tight against him, not because he was so scared he would lose him; if he’s pressing his face against John’s neck, it’s because he smells so good and feels so warm, not because he’s burying senseless pleas against his skin.

Or maybe it is, because John does reply to those pleas, breathless words against Sherlock’s earlobe as his fist moves over both their cocks, holding them tightly together.

“Not going to,” he says, each word a promise. “Not even if you tried to chase me off. Not leaving, ever.”

Sherlock’s only holds him a little closer.

A little while later, when they’ve cleaned off most of the mess and laid down on the sofa, John covering Sherlock like a living blanket, he says it again, more quietly but his words that much stronger for it.

“I’m not going to leave, and you’re an idiot if you think I would.”

Sherlock only hums in reply, his eyes closed, his mind a little quieter.

“Sleep,” John says, no louder than a whisper. “And when you wake up, we’ll work on getting your son back.”

Sherlock still doesn’t know how they’re going to do that, but it’s hard not to believe John, so he does as he’s told and for the first time in days lets sleep claim him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 or 3 chapters left, i think.  
> Thank you as always for your feedback and support <3


	37. Crumbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Carol, with my thanks :)

Under Sherlock’s fingertips, John’s skin is warm and a little rough where a scar bloomed like an exploding flower on the back of his shoulder. He traces the outline of it with two fingers, learning once more the shape of it, its texture, letting his thoughts drifts, halfway between wakefulness and dreams.

That wound brought John back to London and threw him on a collision path with Sherlock. There’s nothing Sherlock could have done to stop that bullet from tearing John’s flesh, not when he was a stranger and half a world away, but would he stop it today, knowing all that he knows, if he could go back in time like in that silly show John and James watched together on the television? If he’s honest with himself, Sherlock can admit it: probably not. That wound and that pain were the price for the two of them finding each other, and as selfish as it is for him to think so, he wouldn’t change that part of John’s past. No, if he was to change something, he wouldn’t let John believe him dead for three years. That’s the bit he’d change. Selfish as well, but he never pretended to be anything else.

The wound and the thought of bullets summon another gun to his mind, another wound, that one fatal, that also brought someone in his life. He never took a close look to Moriarty’s head after a bullet went through it, but he’s seen other head wounds and he can imagine it very clearly. The same question applies. If he could travel back in time, would he stop Moriarty from killing himself? And here the answer is yes. Not to save the man himself, not because Sherlock believes there was anything redeemable in him, but because if he hadn’t died, James would have been spared three years of abuse, along with a lifetime of memories and nightmares. It might have meant never meeting him, and his life might not have been rosy every day, but it would have been a more than fair trade… wouldn’t it?

From bullets, his mind veers toward death, and suicides. James’ grandfather used fire rather than a gun… but did he really kill himself? The balance of probability tilts toward the negative, though it’s all conjecture at this point. Mycroft hasn’t been able to find proof, one way or the other. Granted, it’s a bit more difficult for him to play puppet master on Irish soil, but not that much.

Thoughts of suicide and Mycroft bring forward Mycroft’s treasonous employee, who took her own life when exposed. Sherlock doesn’t know how she died, nor does he particularly care, but it is rather interesting that she chose this end. She had to believe that the alternative would be worse – but which employer did she fear the most? The British government has some fairly unsightly stains in its history, but her offenses were not on such a magnitude that she would have been tortured, or worse. So, it was her other employer she feared. Which means she knew more about him than his ability to pay for information. She knew what he was capable of. 

She knew _him_.

“All right,” John says drowsily, his words half-muffled against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Tell me what you just figured out.”

Sherlock opens his eyes and frowns up at the ceiling.

“How do you know I figured out anything?”

John lets out a little huff of air that might be a laugh.

“I _deduced_ it from the fact that you suddenly stopped stroking my scar after doing it for the past half hour or so. And from the way you inhaled and stopped breathing at the exact same time. Am I wrong?”

It’s always odd to see Sherlock’s methods successfully applied against him.

“Does it bother you?” he asks instead of answering. “That I’m doing this?”

He starts circling the scar again, more tentatively now that he knows John isn’t asleep.

“I can’t feel much of it, but no, it doesn’t bother me. And you haven’t answered.”

He sits up, then, straddling Sherlock’s thighs and robbing him of his warmth but offering him a slight smile in exchange.

“So? What did you figure out?”

“Where to start again,” Sherlock says. “I never talked to that government employee that shared Mycroft’s files.”

“You can’t talk to her,” John points out. “She’s dead.”

“But I can visit her home. I can look into her past, talk to people she knew.”

All of which Mycroft’s people probably already did, but it’s not as though their track record is unblemished. And at this point, Sherlock is ready to look anywhere for the crumbs he needs to lead him to James.

“Okay,” John says after a few seconds. “You go have a wash, because with that much facial hair James won’t even recognize you when we find him—”

Raising a self-conscious hand to his face, Sherlock starts to protest – there’s just a hint of a scratch under his fingers. John, however, goes on, with an amused gleam in his eyes that says he got the reaction he wanted.

“—and I will give Mycroft a call, get an address and whatever else he has. How does that sound?”

If it means Sherlock doesn’t have to talk to Mycroft and refrain, yet again, from blaming him and his incompetent subordinates, that sounds just fine. Sherlock has no issues laying out blame where it belongs, himself included, but it seems rather overkill when Mycroft already blames himself – which he does, why else would he have come by so often in the past few days?

Half an hour later, Sherlock is showered, clean-shaven, dressed, and ready to get to it. John, however, has yet to button his shirt, and he sits at the desk in front of Sherlock’s laptop with a puzzled expression.

“Mycroft said he’d send in a file so I was going to print it from your email,” he says as Sherlock approaches, and follows up with a seemingly unrelated question. “Did James leave his e-reader upstairs?”

Sherlock tenses at the abruptness of the shift.

“He must have,” he says a little stiffly. “He only took the toy and a book.”

Molly confirmed it when she returned, not that Sherlock had any doubts.

“Did you actually see it upstairs?” John presses on.

As Sherlock admits that no, he didn’t, he reaches the desk and looks at the screen in front of John. He understands at once where the line of questioning comes from. Two dozen emails sit in his inbox, each one congratulating him for the purchase of an ebook, each one dating of two days ago.

“It’s all over the place,” John says, directing the mouse to point at titles. “That’s a young adult story. But this one’s a romance. And that’s horror. A few are non-fiction. It’s like someone is buying books randomly. Do you think someone could have found the reader somewhere?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, too busy reading each and every title in turn. The first on the list – the most recent one – gives him a jolt when his eyes pass over James’ name. The very last one does the same, this time with John’s.

“It’s him,” he breathes. “It’s James. It’s got to be. He knows I get receipts for what he buys. It’s a message.”

“They smashed your phone,” John says, “they took away just about everything he took with him. It doesn’t make sense they’d let him keep and use the e-reader.”

“Unless he smuggled it in!” Sherlock is reading the list again, looking for the message. “Remember the bits of fluff I found at the office building? I found the same thing on his bed. The toy, John. It’s big enough to hold the reader. He’d just need to cut it open, slip it inside, and sew it back again. Why else would a teenage boy go around with a plush toy?”

First aid kit, he thinks absently. Stitches. The first time they spoke, James told him he wasn’t very good at doing stitches. He practiced under John’s supervision later on. Stitches to hold the stuffing and the e-reader inside the toy, but easy enough to undo and retrieve the device

“All right,” John says, “but what’s the message, then? What is ‘Not Exactly Ghosts’ supposed to tell us? Or ‘Whovian Dad’?”

Sherlock pinches his lips tightly and thinks – thinks not like himself, but like a thirteen year old boy who’s almost too clever for his own good, who reads anything he puts his hands on, who learned the art of planning ahead from a master criminal.

And who learned skip codes in the same place.

His heart lurching as the solution appears – clever, so clever, and so elegant – Sherlock grabs a notebook and a pen from the desk with febrile hands.

“Read me the titles,” he demands. “Start with the bottom of the list, the first one he bought, and all the way back up.”

John throws him a confused look but does as asked. Sherlock writes down the book titles so fast some words are nearly illegible, but that’s fine, because he’s starting to see which ones matter and which ones do not.

He writes:

_Dear John_   
_Whovian Dad_   
_Never Say Sorry_   
_Divergent_   
_Poetry Please_   
_What If?_   
_Find Virgil_   
_Shelter Me_   
_Forget Me Not_   
_Chronicles of England, Scotland and Ireland_   
_The Testing_   
_Not Exactly Ghosts_   
_Certain Prey_   
_Mockingjay_   
_Where to Go In The British Countryside_   
_The Goldfinch_   
_Lake District_   
_It’s Not Yet Dark_   
_My Two Italies_   
_Father Unknown_   
_Living His Own Way_   
_Miss Chopsticks_   
_Without You_   
_Whatever You Love_   
_Us_   
_The James Bond Omnibus_

“That was the last one,” John says, but Sherlock already knew that and he’s already counting, slashing through words. 

He sets the notebook on the table near the laptop so John can see what he’s doing.

“Skip code,” he explains quickly. “First word, skip the next two, keep the next one, skip the next two, and so forth.”

It takes just seconds, and there it is. The clue, the hint, the trail of breadcrumbs Sherlock was hoping for. And much, much more than that, too.

With a few punctuation marks here and there, it reads: 

_Dear Dad_   
_Sorry. Please find me. Not England, Ireland. Not certain where. In Countryside. Lake. Not my father. His._   
_Miss you._   
_Love_   
_James_

Pressing a hand to Sherlock’s back, John lets out a quiet, “Christ.”

But he doesn’t even know the best part yet.

“The e-reader,” Sherlock says as he commandeers the laptop and, with a few keystrokes, accesses the identification information for the device. “Wireless technology. 3G. It uses mobile phone towers—”

“So we can track it,” John finishes for him.

Sherlock beams at him.

“So we can track it,” he repeats, picking up his new phone from the desk and placing the most important call he’s made in quite a while.

If he had time, he knows a few people who owe him favors and could do track the device for him, even in another country. It should be a lot faster with Mycroft’s help, however.

Two hours, Mycroft says.

He calls back an hour and twenty-two minutes later. They might have been the longest eighty-two minutes of Sherlock’s life.

He has an address. It’s a manor, he says, right by a lake, two hours from Dublin.

He has more news than that, too. He’s in contact with his counterpart in Ireland, and they’re ironing out an action plan. If they’re really dealing with Jim Moriarty’s father, it’s not just a grandfather kidnapping his grandchild to assert his familial rights they’re talking about, but a man who faked his own death for decades to escape prosecution. It could all be dealt with by legal authorities within a day or two.

Sherlock looks at John, who listened to everything as he held the phone between them. His frown and slight head shake match exactly what Sherlock is feeling.

“No. We’re not staying here and letting strangers retrieve James for us.”

Mycroft sighs. Loudly. But Sherlock isn’t fooled. He knows that sigh. It doesn’t mean ‘my brother is impossible and makes my life too complicated’. Instead, it’s ‘you are entirely too predictable and I knew you’d say that.’

“I’m sending a car to take you to the airport. By the time you get to Dublin, we should have worked out the details.”

The preparations don’t take much time. Both John and Sherlock change into dark clothing, should stealth become an issue. John retrieves the gun from the bedroom, checks it, pockets it. Meanwhile, Sherlock is shopping for books to be delivered directly to the e-reader.

_Found_  
 _Look After You_  
 _Sleep Tight_  
 _Coming Of Age_  
 _Soon_  
 _Being A Dad Is Brilliant_

Standing by Sherlock’s shoulder, John reads over the list, reading the message aloud as he goes. His hand rests at the back of Sherlock’s neck and squeezes gently.

“Think he’ll see this?” he asks. “He probably keeps the reader hidden.”

“Probably,” Sherlock concedes. “But on the off chance he checks it before we get to him…”

He shrugs, and doesn’t say what he suspects: that James didn’t just send that message because he was bored of his new living conditions, and that something triggered his actions. If he’d intended all along to let himself be taken only to give them a way to get to him, he could have bought all those books days ago. For that matter, he wouldn’t have said all those things that Sherlock only half-remembers, lost as they were in artificial sleep.

No, the e-reader was a ‘just in case’ back-up plan. In case of what is the question. Sherlock never managed to send that text through and warn whoever took James against hurting him, but if that’s what happened, if James reached out because his grandfather’s idea of discipline is the same as his father’s… 

John may be the one carrying a gun, but Sherlock had three years to learn to kill without one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that it matters, but all the titles named are actual ebooks. None of them is mine however :P


	38. Cavalry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what James has been up to since he left Baker Street, it's in [this chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1733840/chapters/6300107) of Echoes of Love and Absence.
> 
> Merry Xmas if you celebrate, happy reading if it's not your thing!

They don’t go to the airport directly. Instead, the car takes them to a hotel, where the receptionist makes a fuss of welcoming them by name, assuring them that the honeymoon suite is ready for them, the champagne already chilled.

Sometimes, the urge to strangle Mycroft is overwhelming, even if Sherlock does understand the point of the charade. Should anyone be keeping an eye on their whereabouts, they’ll merely look as though they’ve checked into a fancy hotel for the weekend – not like they’re on their way to get James back.

They leave the hotel through the service entrance and duck into a non-descript van that finally takes them to a small air strip.

Five agents board the plane with Sherlock and John. Three of them look familiar from having been on duty around Baker Street since this all started, including the woman who woke Sherlock when James drugged him. Judging from the dark look she gives Sherlock, she does not recall the incident any more fondly than he does – not that he cares in the least about what she thinks.

It’s not a long flight, but it seems to last forever – or maybe it’s because of the anticipation growing as they near their destination, the tension becoming thick enough to cut with one of those knives the man sitting three seats ahead of Sherlock keeps passing from hand to hand.

At some point, John’s hand settles down on Sherlock’s thigh. For a second, it seems like an ill-timed demonstration of affection, and then Sherlock realizes he was bouncing his leg, a nervous habit he finds tiresome in others and that he usually refrains from adopting for himself. He gives John something that might pass as an apologetic smile; John replies with a small squeeze of his fingers.

A phone rings just minutes before they’re due to land. One of the agents answers, uttering little more than ‘yes sir’ a few times. When he hangs up, he stands and addresses his peers, letting them know the mission is cancelled. Right as Sherlock’s head snaps up and John asks the man what he means by ‘cancelled’, Sherlock’s phone rings. He picks up with dread tightening his stomach.

“What’s going on, Mycroft?” he demands, one hand clenched on the phone and the other on John’s arm. 

“My men have not been granted the authorization to operate on Irish soil.” Mycroft’s voice is dry, ready to snap; he’s irritated, though trying to contain himself. “That’s apparently what I get for trying to play nice and in the open. I’ll be sure to remember that in the future.”

Sherlock has no interest in whatever power plays Mycroft and his Irish counterpart are playing, and no interest either in future retribution. There’s only one thing he wants to know.

“When you say ‘your men’, does that include me and John?”

Not that it matters, really. Sherlock hardly intends to sit quietly and wait for someone to get his son for him.

“No. I got that much out of her, at least. You and John can go. You’ll be accompanied by Irish agents. I expect you’re going to be given strict parameters as to what you’re allowed to do or not.” A pause, and Mycroft adds, “Feel free to disregard those parameters if you need to in order to retrieve James safely. I’ll deal with the aftermath as needed.”

Sherlock is stunned enough not to know what to answer, other than “Thank you.” He might be imagining things, but he think Mycroft might just have given him permission to kill in all impunity.

It seems Sherlock and John are not the only ones who want James back.

By the time Sherlock has finished relaying Mycroft’s message to John, the plane is landing. The agents, disgruntled as they may be to have come all this way for nothing, remain in their seats while Sherlock disembarks with John in tow. 

Night is falling, and the headlights of two cars idling on the tarmac are already on, reflecting on pools of water as a fine rain falls on. A woman stands at the foot of the stairway under an umbrella, and for a moment Sherlock thinks she means to shelter him and John. He realizes he’s wrong when she resolutely remains in the way when they reach the bottom of the steps, stopping them from getting fully to the ground. Sherlock gives her a second look, and reassesses her role. 

‘I got that much out of her,’ Mycroft said, talking of his counterpart. Sherlock is fairly certain that’s who is standing in front of him right now. Discreet make-up and a severe-looking suit make it hard to pin an age on her, but Sherlock would bet she’s younger than Mycroft. When it’s all over, when they’re back to the quiet normality of their day to day life, Sherlock will have to remember to needle Mycroft about the fact that he lost a contest of wills while negotiating with a woman quite possibly ten years his junior.

“Mr. Holmes,” she says with a slight nod at Sherlock, then a second at John. “Doctor Watson. Before I allow you to step into my country, I need you to understand something. This is an Irish operation, and it will remain so from start to finish. Your presence will be tolerated by my agents, but solely on the condition that you defer to every command they might give you. You are here as a courtesy, for the sake of the child. You have no role whatsoever to play beyond his retrieval. Are we clear on that?”

Were they not already losing precious time, Sherlock would argue and twist words and make a nuisance of himself, because she’s just as pedantically annoying as Mycroft can be on his bad days. Right now, however, only one thing matters – she’s his key to getting to James.

“Perfectly clear,” he says, not meaning it in the least.

When John echoes him, the woman finally steps aside.

“Welcome to Ireland,” she says coolly. “The car will take you to a safehouse near the property where Professor Moriarty resides. You’ll be briefed when you get there. Good luck.”

She retreats to one of the cars while Sherlock and John climb into the second one. Two hours to go. Sherlock closes his eyes and tries not to wonder what James is doing at this very moment; he’ll know soon enough.

*

‘Stay back.’

That seems to be the general commandment of the day.

Stay back and let the ‘professionals’ do their work. Bad enough that they have to suffer the presence of civilians, they don’t want to have to babysit them on top of it.

Something shifts in John when the operative calls them both civilians. Sherlock can’t quite put his finger on it, can’t quite explain it, but he always recognizes it when he sees it. It’s in the angle of his shoulders, in the way his feet seem suddenly planted more solidly on the ground, in the directness of his eyes, in the mild tone of his voice when he says, “I can assure you there’ll be no need for any sort of babysitting tonight.”

The man frowns slightly, reevaluating his assessment. He doesn’t comment and moves on, explaining the big lines of their plan: neutralize the armed guards stationed around the property as quietly as possible, disable the security system and cameras, proceed to the house, make sure the staff is inoffensive, seize Moriarty and finally get James back.

It’s a fine plan as far as plans go, but Sherlock will be damned if he waits for it all to be over to get him back. One look at John is all he needs to know they are of one mind.

Which is why they don’t stay back when the path to the mansion is open. Their companions huff and grumble, but short of shooting them both in the knee, there’s little they can do at this point to stop them.

It all goes very fast, and later on Sherlock will have trouble remembering every detail up to the moment when they enter the library and find what they’re looking for. Except that even in Sherlock’s worst nightmares he didn’t imagine when he’d next see James his grandfather would hold him like a shield, with an arm over his throat and the muzzle of a gun pressed to his temple.

He, John and the agent who trailed them all stop abruptly and for a couple of seconds, silence presses on them all. Sherlock knows he should focus on the man with a gun, but he can’t take his eyes off James, can’t help noticing how utterly still he is, how his eyes are tight with fear, how there’s a scrape on his lip and another one on his cheek, both of them probably caused by the heavy ring on the same hand that holds a gun to his head. The one thing that steadies Sherlock ever so slightly is the small smile that curls James’ lips when he meets his eyes.

“You,” Moriarty says coolly with a faint tilt of his head to the agent. “I want a helicopter. Make it land in the yard. Thirty minutes or I kill the child.”

To his credit, the agent doesn’t try to figure out if Moriarty is bluffing. After a quick look at Sherlock and John, he backs out of the room. Whether to get that helicopter or regroup and scheme remains to be seen, but Sherlock doesn’t worry about it for now.

He’s been in a situation like this before, back at the pool, when John’s life hung in the balance, but back then Sherlock had – or thought he had – something that Jim Moriarty wanted. What does he have today?

What does he have to bargain with other than his own life?

What weapon does he have, what shield can he use, other than his words?

What ally does he have but the best of them – John?

“So,” he says, taking a nonchalant step forward and drawing Moriarty’s attention to him. “After you went through this whole charade to get him, we’re supposed to believe you’re willing to kill your one and only heir? Really?”

Moriarty bares his teeth on something that’s a far cry from a smile.

“He’d be better off dead than raised by his father’s murderer.”

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock can see John shift a little to the side. The gun is still tucked in at the small of his back. How fast can he draw it? No, Sherlock mustn’t think about that, he must remain focused on the man in front of him – and have him remain focused on him rather than on John or James.

“You think I killed Jim?” he asks with a sneer. “I didn’t need to. He did the honors himself. But you know that. Your gun would be pointing at me if you truly thought I’d killed your son.”

The gun shakes in Moriarty’s hand, but he doesn’t take the bait – doesn’t switch targets. Sherlock keeps his eyes on him rather than look down at James and risk drawing his grandfather’s attention to him.

“But really, how many tears did you shed over his death? It took you three years to even react to—”

“I didn’t know!” Moriarty interrupts him.

Sherlock forces out a laugh. “How could you not know? It was in all the newspapers, all over Europe. Unless… you didn’t believe, is that it? You thought he’d faked it, like he’d faked it before, like you had. You only realized it was true when you saw James with me. You never even _checked_ until then, did you? You’d only have needed to contact that spy in Mycroft’s office and you’d have known, but you didn’t even bother. That’s how much you cared about your family. Charming. You must have been a wonderful father. I see now where Jim got it from. No wonder he never bothered introducing James to you.”

Finally, _finally_ Sherlock strikes a nerve. Finally Moriarty’s grip on James’ throat slackens even as the gun moves away from James’ head – and everything seems to happen at the same time.

“Shut your mouth!” Moriarty shouts as he shifts his aim toward Sherlock. 

At the same second, John draws his gun out and snaps, “James! Get down!”

But James doesn’t get down; instead, he strikes at his grandfather’s arm, deflecting the shot just as he fires, just as Sherlock lunges sideways. 

Fire and agony spread through Sherlock’s arm a second before he hits the floor. James yells and pushes away from Moriarty and forward, toward Sherlock, right into the line of fire. Sheer terror runs through Sherlock and he’s already trying to push himself up to shield James when a second shot detonates through the room, deafening.

For a moment, Sherlock can’t tell which gun fired this time. When James all but collapses against him, throwing his arms around Sherlock’s neck, he’s sure, for a second, completely and absolutely certain that he was hit. The thought that he might be hurt is unbearable, much like it was, months ago, when John was in a car accident.

When Moriarty collapses to the floor behind James, Sherlock finds his breath again and sits up, wrapping his arms around James, unconcerned by the pain lancing through his arm or the blood he can feel seeping through his clothes.

“Are you okay?” John asks, dropping to one knee next to them.

Words are beyond Sherlock, but he manages a nod.

They’re okay. They’re much better than okay.

*

The same agent who briefed them about the plan and who is presumably in charge is not amused by what went down. Not amused at all. He rants and shouts and confiscates John’s gun, and makes it clear to all of them that they are mistaken. No, John did not just fire a gun at anyone. One of his men did. His report will say as much and forensics will corroborate that fact.

Whether he wants to avoid extra paperwork or a diplomatic incident, the result is the same, and neither John nor Sherlock feels the need to argue with him. As for James… all he’s said so far is how sorry he was, and how thankful that they came for him.

John tries to get Sherlock to agree to go to hospital, but Sherlock refuses. The wound is little more than a graze, and he’s had much worse over the years. Besides, John is an army doctor; he’s undoubtedly seen more bullet wounds than most hospital doctors.

With much muttering, John tends to Sherlock’s wound, James observing the proceedings intently. Whether he’s learning or just trying to make sure Sherlock is okay is hard to tell. Or maybe he’s trying to distract himself from the body being taken away.

One more thing he might blame himself for; one more topic they’ll need to chip at, bit by bit, until it’s not a boulder on his shoulders trying to crush him down, but just something that happened in his past. Not tonight, though. There’s a tightness around James’ eyes, a stiffness to his shoulders that speak of exhaustion and preclude asking anything beyond basic questions about his well-being. They’ll have time to talk later.

It wasn’t so long ago that Sherlock feared those discussions, certain as he was that nothing he could ever say would be enough. Now, that fear is gone, dispelled by the alternative. Sherlock can try to be the best father he can be for James, or he can not be his father at all. He’s had over a week of the latter, and he’s more than ready to embrace all the challenges that might come with the former.

It’s late when they get to the airport; later still when they land in London. In the plane like in the car that takes them back to Baker Street, James dozes off. In the plane like in the car, Sherlock has to look at him, every so often, just to make sure he’s still there, still all right. It’s stupid, Sherlock knows that much, but he can’t seem to stop.

“He’s okay,” John says quietly after catching him at it for the hundredth time. “It’s been a rough few days, but he’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine.”

The words, and the tightening of John’s hand over Sherlock’s, help much more than a few words or simple touch ought to.

They shake James awake when they get home and help him up to his room. Getting him out of his coat, jacket and shoes is as far as they go before letting him curl up on his bed and drawing a blanket over him. They turn off the lights and retreat from the room, though they both pause on the threshold and look back to the bed, where James has turned around, where he’s mumbling sleepy words that make it all worth it, that close this part of their lives for good and open up the next chapter.

It ends with five words.

“You’re good dads, y’ know.”

Or maybe, that’s how it starts.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming along for another ride, and thank you for each and every comment. And thank you to Voodooling, always, without whom this James wouldn't have existed.
> 
>  
> 
> To answer before i'm asked - yes, I will keep adding ficlets to Echoes of Love and Absence, and yes, I intend to write another part to this series, in which we'll probably get a better look at James' mother - and of course deal with the aftermath of this story.
> 
> No idea when i will start writing/posting however because there are a couple of fics i want to write before that one, and i probably should focus on my 'pro' writing (aka the thing that keeps the electricity and internet running) a little more. Feel free to keep an eye on my AO3 account or to come say hi on tumblr if you want to know what i'm up to.
> 
>  
> 
> And one last time, if you cared to tell me what you thought of this chapter or the full story, i'd be quite grateful!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Risk of Absence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130215) by [bagofthumbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagofthumbs/pseuds/bagofthumbs)




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